


Angels in Outfields

by The_lazy_eye



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Fluff, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Hate Crime, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Slurs, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Team Captain Eddie, Teen Angst, Underage Drinking, baseball AU, more tags will be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2019-11-27 05:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 124,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_lazy_eye/pseuds/The_lazy_eye
Summary: He slams his locker shut just in time to see Stan walking over, smug look on his face and something clutched in his left hand.“I think I might have found the perfect thing for you,” he says. His voice is smooth and easy and his eyes read trouble. He raises his hand and holds a flyer in front of Richie’s faceDerry High School Baseball TryoutsWeek of February 25thPlease come with running clothes, a baseball mitt, running shoes, and cleats.“Oh, fuck no,” Richie says. He doesn’t even need to read the whole thing to know that this isn’t his jam. Nothing about this has is name on it and no. Fuck no. This isn’t happening.Except it is.Richie takes solace in his inability to play any kind of physical sport ever. He knows he’ll hate this, but he also knows he won’t make the team. Not in a million years.





	1. What The Fuck Is A Base-Ball?

Richie Tozier is bored. He’s got his music cranked up, his phone on his lap, and some mindless show playing on his television. All things a normal seventeen-year-old boy should be easily entertained by. But no matter what song he plays, what show he puts on, or what position he’s lying on his bed, he’s still bored out of his mind. His homework sits in a neatly stacked, pile on his desk already completed and his room, while disastrous, is impeccably organized. He knows where to find everything and despite what his parents may say, it’s exactly to his liking. His voice is low as he sings along to the music, moving his fingers in time with the signature.

_Some days I lie wide awake 'til the sun hits my face_  
_And I fade, elevate from the Earth_  
_Far away to a place where I'm free from the weight_  
_This whole world, this whole world_

The clock reads 4:45 on the wall and on cue a car door slams, followed shortly by the slam of the front door and a distant call of his name. He knows they can hear his music so he’s more than equipped to feign ignorance of their arrival. He’s just genuinely not in the mood right now.

He’s _bored._ He’s been laying in the same position for the past two hours listening to everything and anything that came onto his Spotify. The current song beats in his heart like a monitor, kicking his pulse and making sure he hasn’t wasted away into nothing on his own bed. There’s a kind of lost, restless energy humming in his body right now but the lethargy of existing consumes him. Despite how much he wants to do something, he’d much rather just lay in bed. It’s easier, simpler.

_Some only live to die, I'm alive to fly higher_  
_Than angels in outfields inside of my mind_  
_I'm ascendin' these ladders, I'm climbin', say goodbye_  
_This old world, this old world_

“Richard Tozier, I swear to god,” comes cutting through the music as soon as his door is opened. Maggie steps into the room with a frustrated tick in her step and she crosses the room, not even sparing a single glance at her son, and throws open the blinds. “We only get so much daylight right now; do you have to spend all your time with these curtains drawn?”

Her voice is louder than the music and Richie can’t find it in himself to shout. Or to turn the music down. Instead he just gives her a half assed shrug. This is obviously not the right choice.

“I’m sick of this shit, Richie,” she says and her voice is sharp and accusatory. _That_ gets him to sit up and turn his music down.

“What shit, mom?”

“This!” She says, arms sweeping the layout of his bedroom. “Every single day I come home and you’re up here in the same position, rotting away in your bed while some shitty pop music plays in the background! Richie, you’re young! I need you to go outside, go make some friends, go _do something.”_

Richie fucking gapes at her for a moment. Her eyes have shifted from something angry to something borderline sympathetic and her arms have fallen down to her side. She looks somehow defeated. Exhausted. “Okay, first? This isn’t shitty pop music. I don’t even know how you function. Second, I have friends.”

“Yes, Stan and Bev. I’ve met them. But come on Richie! You don’t have to be best friends with everyone but I haven’t heard you talk about someone new in almost four years.”

“Yeah, that’s because everyone else sucks,” he scoffs. He likes to think himself above petty passive aggression, but he can’t help the way he rolls his eyes at his mother.

“Or maybe it’s because you don’t put yourself out there, Richie.” Oh god. Now her hands are on her hips. The urge to tell her to go fuck herself is so strong but Richie bites it back. He’s proud of himself. Really. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s told Maggie or Went to go eat a dick, but it never really goes over well. Went says its teen angst. Richie says it’s annoying parents.

Whatever. Differing viewpoints, he guesses.

“What do you want me to do, ma? Want me to stand in the hallway and shake everyone’s hands as they walk by?”

“No, Richie. I want you to _care_ about something. Go do something with yourself. You’re wasting away,” she repeats and boy is it grinding down on him. Yeah, sure, he’s bored. But wasting away is such an exaggeration. He’s not wasting away. He’s just restless and bored. School is too easy and every single person in the study body sucks besides Bev and Stan. It’s not worth getting to know people who will just let you down later.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Richard,” Maggie scolds and fuck, he didn’t even realize he did that. She almost looks like she’s mad again, something very Tozier simmering beneath the surface of her skin. They all have it, this knack for blowing up when they really don’t need to. “Get a fucking life, Richie.”

“Fuck you, mom.”

Well. There it is. No going back now.

“That’s it!” she screeches. “You’re not allowed in this house until after 5:30 Monday through Friday. You have until the end of the month to find something to do after school, Richie. Better look fast – I hear the sidewalk is way less comfortable than your bed.”

And then she’s gone. She slams Richie’s door so hard the entire house shakes. Richie almost chases her. He gets as far as putting his hand on the doorknob before he thinks better of it. Instead, he settles for flipping her off as if she can see it. His blood boils as he paces back and forth. He runs his hands through his hair several times, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. Dinner will probably be ready in a half hour and he can’t go downstairs like this. Maggie will be calm by then and if he isn’t they’re just going to have the same fight over again, probably making Richie’s punishment worse.

He doesn’t even get it, anyway. He’s not hurting anyone by coming home and doing nothing. It’s not like he’s out on the streets dealing cocaine or roughing up middle schoolers for their lunch money. He’s just listening to music on his bed and zoning out, dreaming of a town that’s not Derry filled with people who aren’t assholes. It’s not a fucking crime, for Pete’s sake.

He spends the next thirty minutes letting his playlist run through at an even higher volume than before. It’s probably only making things worse but he doesn’t care. It helps him. He can feel the bass in his chest, beating its harshly soothing rhythm. He pops the screen out of his window, leans halfway out, and smokes a Winston. Soon, his breathing evens out and the redness drains from his face. By 5:30 he determines he’s acceptably calm and he turns his sound down, flicking the stereo off entirely and opening his bedroom door.

The silence rings in his ears as he makes his way down the hall. He can hear his parents idly chatting in the kitchen but he doesn’t pay them any mind. He pads over to the fridge, pours himself some water. He knows they can smell the smoke on him but for once they don’t comment. Went simply hands Richie three plates and a handful of silverware.

They eat in relative silence at first. There’s still a tension in the air but it’s mostly dissipated. Richie spins his spaghetti on his fork, avoiding eye contact with his mother and praying that his father says something instead. He doesn’t. Richie isn’t even sure how involved in this whole feud his father is. Is Maggie just being bullheaded or are they in cahoots?

“So, Richie.” Yep. Definitely cahoots. “Your mother tells me that she wants you to be more involved at school?”

It takes every single ounce of self-control to not roll his eyes. It’ll only make things worse. “Yeah.”

“I think she has a fair point,” Went goes on. “I don’t think it’s healthy for a young boy to sit in his room all day.”

“I don’t think it’s fair that she’s trying to force me to do something I don’t want to do by kicking me out of the house,” Richie shoots back. Any venom his voice might have had is lost to the sauce dripping out the side of his mouth.

“Richie, don’t be difficult,” Maggie chimes in. “There are so many after school things. How do you know you don’t like them all?”

Went doesn’t even give Richie the chance to respond. He raises one quick hand and gives a warning _honey_ before continuing on. “I also don’t think that’s fair, Richie.”

Richie feels something akin to hope. His father is always the fair king of the house. He rules with reasoning and compassion, something Richie has always loved. He loves his mother, too. He really does. But he’s acquired all of her worst traits when he was born. They’re both stubborn, they’re both loud, and they’re both emotionally charged. Sometimes Richie’s so charged he feels like he might explode. His parents say that’s good, he’s got passion and fire.

Richie doesn’t really agree, but he’ll take what he can get.

“We talked about it and came to a middle ground. You have until the end of February to find something to get involved in. If you can’t find something you like at school, we’ll figure something out in town. But you have to _try_ Richie. Actually try. No half assing. We wanna see you put out some effort. If you don’t, we’re not kicking you outside for several hours in the dead of winter,” he levels Maggie with a look when he says this, “but we will take your phone away. And your game machines.”

“Dad!” Richie cries, “Come on!”

The hand goes up again and Went simply says, “Just put some effort in and you won’t lose anything. I promise.”

Fuck. There’s no talking his way out of this with their minds made up. Maggie seems satisfied and Richie is relieved to see no smug grin on her face.

“What’s in it for me?” Richie asks. If he has to do this he’s at least going to get something from it.

“The continuous use of your cell phone,” Maggie says, “and the satisfaction that comes with being involved in something.”

Richie must look unimpressed because Went chimes in, “We’ll go on vacation this summer if you follow through with it. You’ve always wanted to go to California. We can check it out, maybe tour some schools. Go to the beach. Sound like an even trade?”

Richie smiles then, big and wide. California. His dream is California and everyone knows it. UCLA, baby. He’s on his way there, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. He can’t say no to this offer. It’s too big, too good. Something Richie has always wanted, ever since he was a kid. It’s touching the ends of his fingertips as he smiles and says, “Yeah, you’ve got a deal.”

How fucking hard can it be, anyway? All he’s gotta do is meander around the school for a few weeks, go to some club meetings, and then end up back in his bed by March. Plus, the weather will start to turn at that point and maybe he can go outside, fuck around with Stan and Bev in the sun instead of being cooped up by his lonesome. That should get them off his case.

The biggest issue would probably be finding something worth spending his time on.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. Just pick something,” Stan says between bites of his pizza. It’s practically cardboard and Richie can hear the unnatural ripping of the crust, but it’s something.

“I can’t just pick shit all willy nilly Staniel, they’ll know. And then there goes California. Whoosh, out the window,” Richie says, making a dramatic swooping with his hands.

“Not really? You can just say you’re really interested in Anime, like, you’re a closet Naruto fan or something,” Stan says, tone of voice completely dry.

On the other side of the table, Bev busts out laughing. She covers her mouth to avoid her apple spewing all over the table as she howls. “Richie! Richie! Please! Go to anime club, please. Infiltrate them. I need to know if the rumors are true.”

“First of all,” Richie starts, only mildly amused by the turn of events, “the rumors are definitely not true. Second of all, fuck you guys. I’m not going to anime club. I’ve never seen a single anime in my entire life.”

“Fullmetal Alchemist counts,” Bev says and Richie shoots her a glare from across the table.

“I’ve never seen more than one anime in my entire life.”

Bev laughs and Stan just rolls his eyes. “We all know how this is gonna end, Richie. You’re not gonna commit to anything and then you’ll get to go to California. It’s a win-win no matter what.”

“Yeah,” Bev agrees, “Richie Tozier, king of noncommittal engagements.”

Richie tries to interject, defend himself, but they go back and forth too fast.

“He’d sooner lose his phone than get involved in the school somehow.”

“Yeah, I’ve tried to get him into the music department so many times.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen him talk to another person in two years.”

“He talks to us!”

“We’re not people, Bev.”

“Hey!” Richie all but shouts, gaining the attention of several surrounding lunch tables. “I can to commit to things!”

“Video games don’t count, Richie.”

“Yeah, neither does, sleep.” Bev bursts out into laughter again and the corner of Stan’s lips upturn ever so slightly. “I bet he couldn’t last the entire semester in anything.”

“Fuck you guys, I can.” Richie says. He’s got his arms crossed, now, and he’s practically staring daggers down the table. Fuck them. Fuck his parents. Fuck all of them!

“Prove it.”

“Fine! I will!” God dammit. Stan and Bev laugh like this was their plan the entire time and it probably was. But fuck if Richie Tozier is anything except proud. And stubborn. So, fucking stubborn.

Between his parents and his friends, this semester was going to kill him.

“But if I win, you guys have to clean Betsy for the entire fucking summer.”

Silence settles over the table for a brief moment. No one talks, no one moves. Bev and Stan lock eyes, no doubt some kind of secret, silent words passing between them.

“Deal.”

It wasn’t hard to find things to go to. There was plenty of bullshit happening after school that he could do. What there wasn’t, however, was plenty of bullshit that he thought he could stomach for four months. Anime club was already off the table. Nothing against those kids, it just wasn’t Richie’s scene. So was chess club and track and field and poetry club and student government and Odyssey of the mind and practically every other flier Richie came across. He had until the end of next week, but as the days crawled by he became more and more anxious about his ability to find something he liked. It wasn’t until Thursday during free period that he began to resign to his fate: lose his bets or suffer. Neither seemed ideal to him but maybe he _could_ suffer through anime club. FMA was pretty boss, after all. He’s sure the others had to be good, too. Right?

_Right?_

He slams his locker shut just in time to see Stan walking over, smug look on his face and something clutched in his left hand.

“I think I might have found the perfect thing for you,” he says. His voice is smooth and easy and his eyes read trouble. He raises his hand and holds a flyer in front of Richie’s face

            _Derry High School Baseball Tryouts_  
_Week of February 25_ _th  
             _ _Please come with running clothes, a baseball mitt, running shoes, and cleats._

“Oh, fuck no,” Richie says. He doesn’t even need to read the whole thing to know that this isn’t his jam. Nothing about this has is name on it and no. Fuck no. This isn’t happening.

“Come on, Richie! You’re running out of time and you say no to everything else. At this rate you’re gonna lose,” Stan says, shoving the paper at Richie’s chest. “This is your last chance. Tryouts are on Monday. Plus, I have a mitt and cleats you can borrow. Your Nikes will be fine for running and I know you have sweatpants and a baggy shirt. It’s all you need.”

“It’s official. You’ve gone crazy, completely all the rails, all loco-loco-locomotive on me!” Richie cries, throwing his body into his locker and clutching the flyer to his chest. “God, save the queen, Stan has gone bonkers!”

Stan stands there for a moment, a challenging glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna pussy out, aren’t you? Take the easy way out?”

The smile falls from Richie’s face immediately and he knows Stan’s got him. Stan knows it, too, because he doesn’t back down. If anything, he steps closer and gets into Richie’s space. “I knew it.”

“Whatever.” Is all Richie says and then they’re walking down the hall, shooting the shit about their upcoming calc exam. Stan’s words didn’t hurt, per say, but they didn’t fade away, either. They nagged him, burrowed into his brain and wouldn’t leave him alone. Over the weekend, Richie found himself bitterly thinking, _I am not a pussy_ to himself. Stan’s voice bounced and bounced around in his head and before he knew it, he packed a small duffle back and threw it in the back of his truck on Monday morning.

_Richie [6:42am]: Fine. Bring the stuff._

He was less than pleased to find Stan waiting for him at his locker, a Walmart bag in hand that contained a pair of immaculate cleats and a well-loved baseball mitt. “They’re from travel,” he says as he hands them over to Richie.

“Gee, Stan, I would hate to ruin such perfect sport bullshit,” Richie says. It’s half sarcasm, half genuine concern. When he looks into the bag he finds a pair of Nike cleats that had to have given Stan a run for his money. The glove didn’t look cheap, either, and Richie worries about wrecking them like he does with everything else he touches.

Stan doesn’t say much, he simply shrugs and offers Richie a, “they’re old,” before turning and walking away. As if that makes it better. Old things in good condition aren’t exactly worthless.

Still, though, Richie takes them and walks to the front office to scribble his name of the try out sheet, as per Stan’s suggestion. He could walk in, but it shows more initiative and through to have signed up beforehand.

He skips his lunch period and eats in his car. It’s not worth the aggravation of listening to Stan and Bev talk about this whole ordeal.

The day passes quicker than he wants to and Richie finds himself in the boy’s locker room. He feels out of place and awkward. Everyone else talks, they smile and laugh and fuck around and then there’s Richie. Entirely out of his element and uncomfortable. It takes a lot to make him uncomfortable, but being surrounded by about fifty boys he doesn’t know, about to do something he doesn’t want to do, has him twitching in his skin.

Richie takes solace in his inability to play any kind of physical sport ever. He knows he’ll hate this, but he also knows he won’t make the team. Not in a million years.

“Alright! Welcome to Derry High Cardinals baseball tryouts!” The coach bellows. His voice is deep and his arms are thick and Richie is honestly not sure he’s ever seen this man before. He’s been going here for three years and suddenly there’s a new fucking gym teacher? What the fuck? “We’re excited to see so many young men out today. I see some familiar faces and some new ones. Hopefully we get to know each other a little better of the next week.”

Richie half listens to the coach. For the most part he looks around at the boys next to him. They’re all sitting on the ground together; some look more eager to get going, some look nervous. Others look comfortable, like this isn’t their first round. It probably isn’t. Richie is an outlier here, he’s an anomaly. A high school junior trying out for a sport he’s never played outside of gym class.

What has the world come to?

Before he knows it, two boys are standing up out of the crowd and stepping forward. The apparent coaches step back and let the boys talk and oh fuck. Richie forgot about this part.

In front of him, next to some boy Richie doesn’t know, is Eddie Kaspbrak: high school legend. Eddie tried out for the team as a freshman and made varsity. He then proceeded to tell off his mother in cold blood on the diamond in the middle of a game. It was legendary and Eddie took it all in stride, climbing to the peak of the social ladder in a matter of weeks. He should have known Eddie would be the team captain.

Richie can’t blame him. Eddie wasn’t much before that. He was treated worse than Richie. Maybe even had less friends. He remembers Henry Bowers breaking Eddie’s arm in the sixth grade. Hell, Richie’s had the shit kicked out of him more times that he can count but at least he never had a bone broken.

And it isn’t even that Richie hated Eddie. He doesn’t. He’s happy for him. Richie isn’t sure what he felt. There wasn’t much to identify anymore. Some kind of distant nostalgia in the back of his brain. Eddie looks good, though. He looks happy. He looks exactly how Richie remembered him. That same smile, those same eyes. He even still talks with his hands. Always animated, always has a story to tell.

“We’re gonna start off with two laps around the gym to get our blood pumping. After that we’re gonna stretch, so everyone grab a partner and stand in front of him. You’ll need someone to help you with arms and legs. Then, we’ll transition into some more running and some endurance training. Finally, at the end of the day, we’ll grab some baseballs and you’ll get to show us what you guys can do.”

The second boy talks a little bit about the structure of tryouts. How everything works and what’s gonna happen. Sometime around the end of the day on Monday, the team lists will be posted in the front office where sign ups were. Roughly fifteen boys will make each team, maybe one or two more based on skill or need. Then, they’re wished luck and they get to it.

Richie keeps up fairly easily for the first part. He’s proud of himself for maintaining his spot in the middle of the pack, not falling behind like some of the other guys do. By the time he finishes he feels pretty good. Yeah, he’s out of breath but that wasn’t so hard.

By the time he’s supposed to pair up, it’s almost as if the entire gymnasium has a buddy system going on. There are only a few stragglers left and unfortunately for Richie, he’s one of them. Fortunately for him, so is the guy he makes eye contact with across the room. They both nod and meet in the middle, Richie sticking his hand out first and introducing himself as Sir Richard, Asshole Who Has No Idea What He’s Doing Here.

The other boy just laughs and introduces himself as Jake. Jake is a sophomore who apparently tried out as a freshman and didn’t make the team. Now, he’s back and ready to try again. Richie admires that. Kid’s got spunk. He tells him as much as he pushes his arms up behind his back. Jake tells Richie he likes his sense of humor as he stretches his hamstrings. The two bond quick in the ten minutes they spend together and Richie thinks to himself, _looks like we’re in this thing together. Maybe I’ll make him look good. If anyone’s gotta make that team, it’s him._

When they’re done, Richie’s feeling good. Too good, almost. He’s got energy thrumming through his veins and he’s almost ready to take on whatever they throw at him. This whole thing was a snapshot so far. It was easy. Richie could do this shit all day. He almost fucking liked it.

“Alright boys, on the line! It’s time for suicides.”

Richie didn’t know he could be so wrong.

They split up into groups of three, lining on up group at a time. Richie just smiles to himself, watching the first group of boys go while holding two fingers by his side so he’ll remember his own group. They steady themselves and on the mark, they run. And come back. And run again. And come back again. And they do this two more times. By the end of it, Richie isn’t sure if he feels sorry for the boys who went first or for himself. He lines up and brushes his hair out of his face. 

_I am not a runner_ , he thinks. _This is it. This is the moment I get kicked out._

Jake stands panting by the wall and cheers Richie on. He’s got a goofy smile on his face and when the whistle blows, they’re off. Richie touches the first line and doubles back, touches the base line and runs again. By the time he’s halfway through his lungs are burning in his chest. He doesn’t look around, he just keeps going. The pack of boys around him keeps him motivated, keeps him going. If he were doing this alone, all bets would be off. Richie would fall over dead in an instant. But he doesn’t. He hears his name being called and he runs the final stretch back to the base line.

He doesn’t collapse like he thought he would. Instead, he stands doubled over with his hands on his knees. He can hear his own wheezing breaths, he can feel the tightness in his throat and the pain in his legs and stomach. He feels a clap on his back and Jake smiles. When Richie stands slightly he’s pleased to see he wasn’t the last one in his group to finish. Five or so more boys straggle in a decent time after Richie did, meaning he must not have done that bad. They go back to the wall together and the third group goes. When they’re done, Richie has his breath back and he’s chatting aimlessly with Jake, pointing out the boys who made the team versus who didn’t. As the cramp in his side fades, Richie smiles lightly until he hears, “Group one, again!”

Oh, what the everloving fuck. Each group runs suicides two more times and by the end of it, Richie really does collapse. He throws his back against the gym wall and slides down, hands in his hair. It’s a wild mess, going every which direction and Richie thinks he might drown in it. For a second, he thinks he might shave it off. Who’s fucking idea was it to have long hair, anyway? He can’t see with this shit flopping all around with absolutely no abandon. Fuck his hair, fuck these suicides, and fuck baseball. They haven’t even touched a baseball yet! Isn’t this supposed to be tryouts? Shouldn’t they touch a fucking baseball?

When the running is over, they still haven’t. They do five-minute wall sides, burning holes in Richie’s thin, pixie stick thighs. They do rock climbs, re-stitching the cramp in his side. They fucking plank, which he can’t do to save his life. He drops to his knees more times than he wants to. Richie thinks he’s going to die. No. He _knows he's_ going to die. This isn’t worth it. This fucking bet will kill him before he has the chance to brag or collect his prizes.

By 4:30 they’ve only got an hour left and Richie doesn’t know how much more he can take. He’s covered in his own sweat, baggy clothes clinging to his skin in the worst kind of ways. Finally, finally, the coach stands in front of them and says, “Alright boys, grab your mitts, a ball, and a partner. Let’s see what you can do.”

Jake gravitates toward him like a natural magnet.

“Hey. Not to be a fucking moron but how the fuck do you throw and catch that thing?” Richie asks, motioning to the ball in Jake’s glove. Jake just laughs, fucking laughs right in Richie’ face before stepping forward and showing Richie how to hold his glove up and how to throw the ball. Arm over your head, 90-degree angle, push. Richie tries it a few times and he’s fucking terrible. Jake has to move his glove in a thousand different directions to catch Richie’s wildly inconsistent throws. Richie, on the other hand, has the privilege of holding his glove practically still as Jake hits his mark every single time.

They line up against the long edge of the gym and toss the ball back and forth. They stand about 3 feet apart, moving back a step every time the whistle blows until they’re throwing across the width of the gym. Richie knows he’s not impressive but he’s also catching more than some of the others. The sounds of balls hitting linoleum echo nonstop. His throwing gets better with distance, too, which he finds weird as fuck. Jake throws him a couple of wild cards and he manages to catch them.

He can’t shut his fucking mouth, either. The entire time they’re throwing he’s making jokes and comments, making all the other boys around him laugh. At one point he’s got Jake wiping his eyes from laughing so hard. Richie knows he’s beaming a stupid fucking grin on his face but he’s not just in it for the laughs. When Charlie standing next to him drops a ball Richie cracks a wise one, but when Charlie catches it Richie’s the first to clap him on the back and tell him, “I knew nothing could keep your hand off a solid ball, my boy,” which does make Charlie laugh but it also makes him throw better. Makes him catch better.

Richie knows he’s not here to make the team. He’s here to make others make the team.

When it’s over, Richie changes and slips out of the locker room. His entire body is on fire and despite the small smile that lingers on his lips he wants nothing more than to get the fuck out of there. He tosses his bag into the back seat and leans against the side of his truck. He’s got a Winston out of the pack in no time and he inhales the sweet, dirty taste of nicotine.

“Like a cigarette should,” Richie says to himself, pulling out his phone and scrolling through twitter. He’s got texts from Bev and Stan asking how the first day went. He’ll answer them later. He’ll lie straight through his teeth about almost passing out and being unable to throw in a straight line. They don’t need to know that. They don’t need to know shit. All they need to know is that he went, he’s going again tomorrow, and this whole ordeal will be over in a week’s time.

“You know, you’d probably have less trouble running if you quit. I could hear you wheezing from across the gym,” comes from beside him and he’s so startled he almost drops his phone. He doesn’t, thank fucking god, and he turns around to find no one at all. The side of his truck is devoid of human life and fucking hell, he must be more exhausted than he thinks he is. Except he isn’t just hearing things. Instead, he must be a fucking idiot because when he turns back he realizes that the voice didn’t come from beside him, it came from behind him. When he turns he’s face to face with the one and only Edward Kaspbrak. Team captain, varsity legend, and hot shot.

Richie doesn’t say anything back. Partially because he has no idea what to say to that. He can be an asshole but he doesn’t really want to. Eddie might be the epitome of high school’s worst features but he’s not a bad dude. Richie knows that. So instead of being mean he just stays quiet, takes a drag from his Winston, and smiles sweetly at Eddie. Eddie laughs gently and turns to leave. As he does, he looks over his shoulder and says, “I never pegged you as the baseball type, Tozier. Gonna come back tomorrow?”

Richie nods once and Eddie smiles, “Good work today.”

And then he’s gone, walking across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk with a duffle bag slung over his shoulders. Richie watches him go as he smokes his cigarette down to the nub.

By the second day of tryouts, Bev gives Richie a bright pink scrunchy. It holds his hair back in a pristine bun and, fuck it, he looks damn good. He walks into that gym, every muscle in his body burning. He runs and he stretches and he runs some fucking more. They throw short and long distance, Jake showing him different throwing techniques. The coach pulls him and several other boys aside, showing them a hop-throw method of throwing balls across the gym. He stands on one side as each of them throw down the gym.

When it’s Richie’s turn, he’s surprised to see that the ball makes it all the way down without hopping. He’s not surprised to see that he doesn’t hit his mark. The coach has to run several yards to the left to catch it. Richie can’t tell if he looks upset or impressed. He shoots him a quick wink and a thumbs up from across the gym and jogs to the back of the line.

Pitchers and catchers break away on the third day, as well as the varsity boys. No one says its varsity, but it’s all the same boys being pulled out for separate training. Maybe one to two new ones. Richie is pretty sure the varsity team was cemented before tryouts even began. Not that he cares. What he notices more, though, is how the crowd seems to have thinned out overall. There are significantly less people here than there were on the first day.

After their warm ups, running, and endurance training the coaches hit them grounders they have to field and line drives they have to catch. Richie, as predictably as ever, cannot catch line drives to save his life. Instead, he practically runs from them, flinching and screaming and catching _maybe_ one of them. They’re not even coming fast, he just doesn’t want to get hit in the face with one. Jake tells him to just put his glove up and he’ll be fine. Richie decides Jake is crazy. Why the fuck does anyone like this sport?

He can’t field the fast grounders either but when they’re coming from a distance and slightly slower, he manages to grab them.

Eventually, they get pop flies, which he’s much more comfortable with. He’s got time with them, he can figure them out. They’re not hard. He catches the majority of the balls hit to him and does that little skip hop twist thing to throw it back to the coach. It still isn’t accurate but it as it flies down the gym Richie can’t help but smirk.

On the fourth day, Jake hands Richie a bat. Well, he hands Richie bat after bat. If there was anything he didn’t know before he stepped into this gym on Monday is that every bat is a different fucking weight. Depending on the strength of the batter and blah, blah, whatever. Richie doesn’t get it. Jake makes him swing a couple bats, though. Test them out. He picks one that’s yellow and blue and sets it aside. After warm ups they set up tees with balls attached to them. They hit those balls and they bounce around and then they hit them again. Richie thinks it’s stupid as fuck but the coach ambles around and watches them.

Then, they get inside of a long fucking net which is apparently a batting cage? When Richie pictured the word batting cage he didn’t think of something that could be used to mass capture crabs off the coast of Maine. He pictured a big metal fucking cage, you know, like a normal person.

He watches guys file in. Everyone gets ten hits from the pitching machine. Some of them hit every ball, some of them hit nothing. The majority of the guys hit at least a couple. Some balls are tipped as fouls, some hit the side of the net. It’s all over the place, really. Jake goes in and it’s a no brainer for him. Richie counts. He hits 7 balls, tips one, and misses two. Overall, he seems proud of himself as he steps out. He gives Richie one of those high five one armed hug things that dude bros do and Richie is strangely proud.

He’s less proud when he steps in. The coach is standing behind a thin net and he tells Richie the same thing he’s told everyone before him. You get ten pitches, do your best and don’t overthink it.

Richie over thinks it the way he overthinks everything. The first pitch flies past him and he swings too late. He can hear it hit the net and fall to the ground. He swings too early on the second pitch, knuckles white as they grip the blue handle. He swears he hears the sound of metal clanging but on the third pitch, the ball connects with the back net yet again.

He steps out of the batting box for a second and takes a deep breath. The gym is silent as they watch him, Richie Tozier, take his helmet off and shake his head, his bun wiggling slightly with the motion. Jake calls out to the coach to pause for a second and he slips under the net and walks up to Richie, one hand on his shoulder.   

“Just see the ball connect with the bat,” Jake says and Richie steps back into the box. The coach nods at him and he nods back. Then, he’s putting a ball in the machine and it’s slipping through the rubber spinner and out of the front. Richie watches it, brings his arms back, and swings. He isn’t ready for the way the bat reverberates in his arms when he hits it. The coach isn’t ready, either, because when the ball sails through the cage and connects with his safety net he flinches, nearly falling over from his place at the machine.

He looks at Richie and Richie looks back, both equally shocked. From outside the cage, Jake screams and cheers and others look mildly impressed.

Richie gets six more pitches. He hits 4 of them, all sailing either into the safety net or directly past it. He misses two of them but when he exits the cage he feels good. Jake brings him in for a hug and tells him that he did great. No fouls and less strikes than hits. Richie isn’t really sure what any of that means but he smiles. They spend the rest of batting cheering on the other boys. Richie tells batters to swing before they’re even in there and Jake tells him to shut up. Richie cheers and encourages and yells and even though he’s the only one doing it he doesn’t stop. He’s high on the thrill, high on the excitement.

Day five is probably the hardest of them all. It’s the final day and Richie twitches in his seat for the entire day. Bev and Stan don’t say anything about it but he knows they see it. They know he’s been tired and sore. But they know he’s been happier, sleeping a little better, a little less out of his head.

Richie won’t even say it out loud but maybe this experience has been good. Maybe he’ll actually find something to get involved in once this whole thing is over.

They run through everything, and they do it fast. They stretch, run suicides, and then they’re off. Richie watches himself keep up, he watches the others around him. He runs and fields and catches and throws. He’s not good, his aim still sucks short range and he can’t field anything for shit, but he bats strong. Him and Jake cheer each other on, as well as some people around them. They’ve formed a small pose over the past week. Charlie and Rudy are part of it and their constant morale, constant encouragement. Richie can’t wait to see them play, he can’t wait to see them in their uniforms. He’s like a proud father duck with his three little ducklings.  

To end the day, they go outside to the field in the bitter February cold and run the bases. The faster they run, the faster they get back inside. And oh, does Richie run. He runs and runs and rounds that diamond. His feet connect with the frozen sand and he feels the wind on his face. His lungs burn and freeze at the same time and he rounds second, rounds third. Home plate is in front of him and run, steps onto that base, and comes to a stop. He looks out to the field, catches his breath, and walks away.

When it’s over and he’s changing in the locker room, they all shoot the shit and wonder if they’re going to make it. Richie stays quiet, watches them as they talk and laugh. He’s stupid, he knows he is, but he thinks he might miss this. He thinks he could have come to enjoy this stupid fuckery of a sport. He could have enjoyed these ridiculous people. He tosses his stuff in the back of his van and texts Stan.

_Richie [5:58pm]: I’ll bring you your cleats and glove on Monday._


	2. I Did What Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was fun, though. He can’t deny that. He liked laughing with the guys he met on the team. He has no doubt in his mind that, come Monday, those boys would be walking into the locker room to claim their spot on the team. He’s proud of them, they all worked pretty hard to earn their spots. Richie will probably drag Bev and Stan to see some games, too. He might not have had time to become super close with the boys on the team, but he sure did have a soft spot for those fuckers. They laughed pretty hard together most days and they were overall a solid group of kids. Richie sure as hell never hated the baseball team, but now he dares to say he likes them.  
> It was fun for a while, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t the bright sun or relentless pounding on his door that woke him up. It wasn’t even an insistent buzz from his phone that sometimes happens when he misses plans. Instead, it was the smell of bacon wafting into his bedroom; a smell that doesn’t come from his kitchen often these days. It’s been a while since either of his parents really cooked a homemade meal in the morning. If they do something big for breakfast, normally they head down to Centre Street and hit the Derry Diner for some eggs and bacon. Richie can’t even really remember the last time he had bacon at home from the comfort of his own kitchen.

He doesn’t bother turning his head to check to the clock on his bookshelf. He just kind of lays there and soaks up the smell. He can also smell the distant undertones of fresh coffee wafting under his door. It’s heavenly. Truly. There are voices, also. They’re quiet but the echo into his room like whispers in the early morning. His parents must be up and around. Part of him wants to wake up and join them, sit at the table and steal the funnies from Went’s morning paper and maybe antagonize Maggie while she cooks. He doesn’t, though. He’s fucking _sore_. No one ever told him that fucking running and sports and _physical activity_ would hurt him so much. All of those football players and soccer kids and track and fielders make it look easy. They get up every day and stroll into homeroom like their bodies aren’t on absolute fire. Richie has no idea how they do it. It’s fucking excruciating.

It doesn’t hurt so bad if he doesn’t move, but whenever he tries to roll over he can feel it in his calves and thighs, his lower abdomen, and his biceps. Even his neck hurts and he doesn’t remember doing anything remotely active with his neck. Why the fuck does his neck hurt? What absolute fresh hell is this?

So, he decides not to move. Laying spread out on his stomach is perfect. His head pillow is thrown on the floor and he’s got something wrapped up in his arms, pressed to his chest. He’s so comfortable that he never thinks he has to move again. There’s nothing important going on ever again. Nothing can beat the quiet, solitary comfort he finds between his own sheets.

The haze in his head is pleasant, but it sharpens as he hears footsteps approach the end of the hallway. He hears them walk right up to his door and he knows that whoever it is currently stands poised outside, ready to knock and wake Richie up from his slumber. Not that he’s not already awake. His parents just don’t know that.

He waits for a second, holding his breath like a child and trying to get his body to seem as relaxed and asleep as possible. In reality, whoever is on the other side of that door would probably be stoked to come in and find Richie awake but he can’t let go of the adolescent need to feign sleep when his parents walk in.

His door does open, eventually. After what feels like a million years the door cracks open slowly and quietly as if the person on the other side is trying to be sneaky about it. It seems pointless to Richie because they’re just going to wake him up, anyway. Bring him out for some kind of impromptu family breakfast which he wouldn’t hate but the idea of standing is daunting.

Richie waits with bated breath, facing away from the door and trying to melt into the bed as to be unseen. Him and his intruder stay like that for a moment: Richie stock still and them doing whatever the fuck they’re doing. Maybe watching him sleep or looking at the disarray of his bedroom or plotting his murder. Whatever it is, they do it for long enough that Richie debates backing out of this game of Saturday morning chicken. Just as he’s about to groan and stretch and turn he hears a creak and the click of his door shutting.

Huh. Weird.

He decides to not press his luck. If the parental gods allow him to sleep in for even ten minutes longer he’ll take it. The tension melts out his body, the thrumming in his muscles fade away, and he drifts in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t mean to _actually_ fall back asleep. Really. But actions speak louder than words and before he knows it, he’s jerking up out of bed and staring around his room like he doesn’t know where the fuck he is. Which, he does. He just doesn’t know what time it is.

Fucking hell? How in the shit does his clock read 11:23 in the morning? No way, there has to be some kind of mistake here. Whoever was in his room this morning must have changed his clock to fuck with him. Maggie is probably sitting at the table right now, trying desperate to muffle a laugh behind a perfectly manicure hand.

_That bitch._

Richie huffs out a breath and throws the blanket off of him. Nothing seems out of place but knowing her she’s managed to dodge every landmine Richie has planted under dirty piles of laundry.

Grabbing a dirty shirt from the floor, he shucks it on and stands, making sure his boxers are sitting comfortably on his waist and not twisted up. Might as well go out there and confront the prankster in the wake of their crime. He walks with a determination despite the screaming in his body and rounds into the kitchen, hand up and mouth already forming, “What the absolute fuck, mom?”

It falls of deaf ears, though. Actually, it falls on no ears at all. The kitchen is completely empty. There’s no Maggie at the table and no Went at the stove. Richie peaks into the living room for a second and they’re not even there. There’s no aimless chatter or sniggering. There’s no strong smell of bacon and coffee or sizzle of cooking eggs.

Richie can’t wrap his mind around the confusion and fog still clouding his brain. They were just here, he swears it! He runs a quick hand through his curls, snagging his fingers once or twice on the way through and just kind of stands there for a moment. Really tries to get his bearings on his empty house. He walks to the front window and peers out into the driveway. No car. Only his trusty Betsy sits in the driveway, all in her lonesome.

He wanders back into the kitchen. The more he moves the more the stiffness in his bones begins to shake away. Before he knows it, he only feels a dull ache in his body. It’s nothing compared to the sharp, harsh burn he felt before. It fades into an ever-present thrum that he thinks he could get used to if he had to. Maybe this is how the student athletes did it; blissful ignorance.

Richie doesn’t remember the last time he had the house to himself on a Saturday morning. Well, technically it’s hardly morning but still. Usually he’s been woken up at this point and then the three of them meander around the house for a while, each going about their own morning. Someone will usually break out first. Sometimes Maggie has errands to run, sometimes Went has some kind of meeting he has to be at. Sometimes it’s Richie heading out to get into god knows what in town. It’s been difficult with the snow and cold, though, so he’s been spending more time in the living room with the tv on or in his bedroom with his controller in his hand. Now, though, he’s neither of those things. Now he’s alone, completely rested to his liking and he doesn’t even have pants on yet. This is the kind of life Richie thinks he can get used to. Besides, he’s had a busy week. He deserves it.

When he ends up at the counter he notices a plate with a layer of tinfoil wrapped around the top of it. Curiously, he looks around to check for any lingering spies before peeling one side of it back. Somehow, he’s surprised to find bacon under it. And pancakes? Fuck yes this is his lucky day. Any coffee still in the pot is cold to the touch so Richie dumps it and starts a fresh pot. He sticks a shot glass of water in the back of the microwave and heats up his breakfast for a couple seconds, careful not to overdo it, before sitting down at the table and digging in.

It takes him about ten minutes after he’s well fed and caffeinated to realize that he doesn’t have his phone on him; another rare occasion. There’s no real need for it right now. There’re very few people who ever think about contacting him and social media only updates so fast. He has no doubt that he can scroll through his entire twitter feed no matter how late he waits to open the app.

Richie figures he’s better to just take this morning as it is: leisurely and slow. He opts for a shower, shedding his boxers and dirty shirt and walking around the house buck naked as he gathers the rest of his laundry. No one’s home to yell at him or judge him and he doubts anyone will be coming by anytime soon. And fuck, it’s nice to just _be_. This has to be what it’s like to have his own apartment. Free to be in his own skin whenever he wants. No pressure, no routine, no early morning wakeups. Just him and his own rules.

Maybe he can do it, too. College is right around the corner and he has the sweet, sea-salty taste of the California sun on his tongue. It’s far away but it’s also right there. Right within the walls of his empty house, sounding in the rattling of the washing machine and the spray of the shower.

He’s got the water turned all the way hot and there’s steam rising from his pink skin on contact. It feels good. It ebbs the last of the tension and soreness out of his muscles. He spends some time washing and conditioning his hair, taking care to run his fingers through the curls on his head and untangle them. He washes quick and then just stands there, gets lost in the sensation of the water hitting his back and shoulders.

There’s no way of helping how his mind drifts to this past week - it almost feels like baseball had taken over his life for a moment. Every single evening was occupied with running and sweat and stress. He can’t remember the last time he was kept so busy by something. Hell, he hardly even saw Bev and Stan unless they were eating together or in class. Normally he’d see at least one of them after school but by the time practice was over he always felt too tired, too ready to just go home and relax.

It was fun, though. He can’t deny that. He liked laughing with the guys he met on the team. He has no doubt in his mind that, come Monday, those boys would be walking into the locker room to claim their spot on the team. He’s proud of them, they all worked pretty hard to earn their spots. Richie will probably drag Bev and Stan to see some games, too. He might not have had time to become super close with the boys on the team, but he sure did have a soft spot for those fuckers. They laughed pretty hard together most days and they were overall a solid group of kids. Richie sure as hell never hated the baseball team, but now he dares to say he likes them.

It was fun for a while, wasn’t it?

Richie takes a deep inhale, breathing in the steam from the shower, and holds it for four counts. It evens out the constant thrum in his veins, the way he unconsciously twitches and moves. He feels the world pause and his heart beat just a hair harder before his exhale. He does it again, this time stepping directly under the spray and letting the hot water wash over his head and face. He steadily breathes out through the water, regulating his pace and then shuts the water off. The water runs of his body as he stands there and he pauses to let it before slicking his hair back and grabbing his towel. By the time he’s dried and stepping out of the bathroom the laundry is ready for the dryer.

He feels some strange wave of accomplishment wash over him as he changes into fresh clothes. He grabs his phone off the nightstand, reading through the missed texts he has.

 _Stan [8:23am]: Awake?_  
_Stan [9:45am]: How about now?_  
_Stan [10:54am]: God dammit, Richie._  
_Stan [12:01pm]: I don’t even know how you function as a human being._

_Bev [10:28am]: milkshakes at 1:30. be there or be square loser_

Richie snorts to himself and pockets his phone. It’s only a little after noon, he’s got plenty of time. Fuck responding, though. He wants make them squirm.

He feels his phone buzz a few more times in his pocket. A mildly annoyed text from Bev and three more texts from Stan, each coming off more and more annoyed. He also gets a text from Maggie letting him know she’ll be home in the afternoon. She shoots her back letting her know he’ll be gone and that’s that. Maybe he’ll see them for dinner, maybe he won’t. There really isn’t any plan going into the weekend. He doesn’t really have a plan going into much of anything, to be quite honest.

But what he does have a plan for is this afternoon and soon enough he’s pulling his jacket on over his shirt and slipping his shoes on. Betsy purrs like a kitten when he starts her up and they sit together, trying to warm up in the bitter cold before pulling out and onto the main road.

It doesn’t take Richie very long to get to the diner. When he pulls in he can see Bev and Stan already at their usual spot. He grabs a plastic bag from the passenger seat and heads inside, slightly jogging just to get into the warm building.

“Who the fuck meets for milkshakes in the middle of winter?” Richie said as he slides into the booth opposite his friends. He shrugs his jacket off and shakes his shoulders out, desperately trying to get the cold air off of his skin. He tosses Stan the bag and is surprised when Stan catches it with ease. He opens it up and gives Richie a quizzical look before tying it back off and setting it on top of his own jacket.

“Us, dumbass. Like every other weekend,” Stan says. He’s already got the wrapper from his straw balled up, despite not having gotten any drinks yet. He flicks it at Richie who, naturally, doesn’t dodge.

“Besides, it’s not the middle of winter anymore. Spring is on the horizon,” Bev says. Her tone says mild amusement at best but her face tells a different story. She’s wearing a soft, fond look and she glances between her boys. There’s something natural in the way her smile rounds and her eyes crinkle. Richie can’t help but smile back at her.

“Tell that to the three inches of snow we’re supposed to get next week.”

“Oh, eat my entire ass, Richie. Let me be optimistic.”

“It’d be my absolute pleasure, sweetheart,” Richie says. He grabs a napkin from the table and tucks it into the collar of his shirt.

Bev screams when he makes grabby hands for her across the table. She falls into Stan’s shoulder in a fit of giggles, which immediately prompts Stan to shove her off and yell, “you opened this can of worms, now lie in it!”

The three of them fall together so naturally. Richie firmly believes that they’re soulmates. They’ve been sent to Derry with the explicit purpose of finding each other and latching on for dear life. He’s not entirely sure what’d he’d do without the dynamic duo in front of him and he never wants to find out. The past few years haven’t been particularly easy but as long as he has the two of them he knows he can face down anything that comes his way.

They fall into an easy conversation, Richie getting sucked into Stan and Bev’s dramatically different lives. Stan’s tutoring business is finally taking off as the semester gets rolling and Bev has spent the week preparing for auditions. This year’s big production? Bugsy Malone. Apparently, it’s a musical about kid gangsters or whatever. Instead of shooting each other they pie each other. Richie doesn’t really understand it but he listens with rapt attention as Bev describes the part she’s going out for.

“Blousey is the leading female role!” she shouts, arms big and wide as she looks between her boys. “She’s the main love interest, a singer and dancer. I think I’ve got what it takes to knock that role out of the park.”

“Bev, baby, you could knock any role out of the park,” Richie smiles.

“Yeah, you’re talking like you haven’t landed every role you’ve wanted since the fifth grade.”

“Pocahontas really was my introduction to stardom, wasn’t she?”

Richie’s about to reply, some quick retort about smallpox just lingering on his tongue, as their waitress comes around. She greets them with a fond smile and doesn’t even take their orders. Instead, she asks if they want any fries today. Why yes, Ms. Michael, we do. Thank you.

She’s gone as quick as she comes and by that point the moment as passed. Instead of hounding Bev, he just listens to her rant about how she’s ready to take on Derry High yet again. It’s a shame, really, that the music department isn’t valued as much as it should be. Bev is Derry’s every star. She’s probably the most musically active kid he’s ever met. She’s the whole reason he’s got a guitar sitting in his room, collecting dust. When they were younger they used to jam together. She taught him everything he knows.

Ms. Michael comes around with their milkshakes and fries. Chocolate for Richie, vanilla for Stan, and a mix of the two for Bev. It’s the same thing they always get. Usually they joke about trying something new, maybe the snickers flavor or, god forbid, mint chocolate chip. They won’t, though. They never do. There’s comfort in their routine. Familiarity.

“Richie,” Stan starts, practically cutting Richie and Bev’s conversation off. “Did you make the team?”

It’s sudden and it takes Richie back for a moment. “I just threw your cleats at your head like, what, twenty minutes ago? Does it look like I made the team?”

Stan looks at him for a second and then just says, “How do you know? Was the list posted?”

“Yes, it was,” Richie lies straight through his teeth, “And right at the bottom, in big bold letters, it says ‘Richie Tozier is a buffoon for trying out.’”

“So, the list hasn’t actually been posted,” Stan says and suddenly they’re in a standoff. Richie’s smug grin verses Stan’s level face.

“What are you, a mind reader?” Richie shoots back. “Stan the Man in the hidden talent freak show. Not only does he have an extraordinarily weird aptitude for math but he can also see into the minds of every unsuspecting soul within a twelve-foot radius. Grab the tin foil, folks! It’s our only hope!”

Richie throws his hands up and falls into the booth, crying out as he desperately grabs anything and everything to put over its head. He creates a mild scene, innocent diner patrons glancing over their shoulders. He doesn’t care, though. Richie only really cares about a few things and right now one of those things is getting Stan off his ass.

It works for the most part because Bev picks up a fry and pegs it at Richie’s head. This _almost_ starts a food war but they think better of it. The last thing they need is to be kicked out of the only place they can stand to be when it’s cold outside that doesn’t include one of their houses.

They stay there for two hours, drinking their milkshakes until there’s nothing left and then using the leftover fries to scrape the residue off the glass. Ms. Michael comes around a few more times and eventually brings the check. Stan grabs it, claiming wealth with the money from his new tutoring clients, and then they’re hugging at the door. Bev has more lines to run, Stan has more kids to teach, and Richie? Well, Richie has nothing to do but he doesn’t tell them that. Instead he goes home and locks himself up in his room. He’s got video games to play and relaxation to do.

He’s surprised at how much his parents leave him alone for the rest of the day but it comes back around at him two-fold when Went knocks on his door Sunday morning. He brings a cup of coffee and a list of chores for Richie to complete throughout the day. Laundry is already done, thank God, but Richie spends most of his afternoon busying himself with vacuuming and cleaning the bathroom. He hates it, but it’s a small price to pay for the crisp bills Went hands him that evening. He pockets the cash, winks at his father, and sets the table for dinner.

As much as Richie might fight with his parents, he thinks they’re pretty alright people. Maggie and Went both have glasses of wine in front of them and they talk about their plans for the week. The car needs an oil change so Went will take Maggie to work and then go get that done. Maggie has something going on with her book club this week. Something has been going down and the runners are looking to ask someone to leave. Who fucking knew moms had so drama? Richie swears she comes home every week with new gossip to tell them. Went lives for it. He’s always waiting for her, eager to know who did what this time.

“Richie, honey,” Maggie starts, “I’m so excited to find out if you’ve made the baseball team.” The look on her face echoes her statement and Richie feels something swell and crash inside of him. It rises up to the top, almost lifting him out of his seat

“Yeah,” Went agrees. He smiles down the table and Richie feels his stomach turn in response. “We’re so proud of you.”

Instead of answering, Richie shoves a forkful of food into his mouth and shrugs. This seems to placate them and they go back to talking about whatever parents talk about. Richie can’t be bothered with it.

He becomes lost in his thoughts. The past week turns over in his mind several times, thinking about how his muscles still hurt but how he almost liked it. There was something strangely satisfying in the knowledge that he’d done something productive. Something that made his body stronger. He never thought of himself to be athletic but baseball has the right amount of running mixed in with other things. He didn’t realize how much he would actually like it until he got himself in it, especially once he got his hands on a bat. He only had two practices where he got to hit but he was good. Way better than he thought he’d be. When he was in the cage it was like the only thing he could see were the ball and his bat. Every emotion he had, every ounce of energy, could be put into that swing and it showed.

His teachers always told him he had a destructive energy about him. They never told him there was something he could actually _do_ with it.

It doesn’t matter, though. He tries not to get too invested in the thought of it because it’s gone now. Over. Tryouts were only a temporary fixture on his radar and now it’s over. Plus, he still wins. Not only does he get California but he also gets a bright, shiny truck at the end of this. Stan was an idiot for taking this bet on. Richie knows that Stan’s perfectionism would result in the cleanest truck he’s ever owned. You done played yourself, Stanny boy.

Richie gets so inside of his head that he almost doesn’t go in to school on Monday. What’s the point, you know? He already knows what’s going to happen. He’s going to get yelled at by his history teacher for not paying attention, even though he knows what happening. He’s going to eat a shitty sandwich at the cafeteria that probably shouldn’t be ingested. And he’s going to confirm the fact that he didn’t make the team. All of this is predictable and he hardly feels like he needs to be there for it.

He’s a dead man if his mother gets another phone call from the school.

Fucking hell.

The first part of his day is entirely uneventful. He gets there, collects his shit from his locker, and goes about his day. He catches Jake’s eye from across the hall and he gets an excited smile and a thumbs up, which he returns with his own smile. There’s something unspoken in the air but neither of them has time to stop and talk before the warning bell rings. Richie is already running late, if he stops to talk to Jake he has no doubt in his mind he’ll be facing a detention after school.

There is nothing out of the ordinary to report by the time he gets to lunch and he’s surprised to know that there’s nothing from Stan or Bev, either. Bev’s got her hair done back in a tight bun and she nervously taps her leg in time with her racing thoughts. Richie can see she’s far away from them right now but he knows she’ll be back by this time tomorrow.

Stan, on the other hand, is taking exactly none of Richie’s shit.

“C’mon, are you seriously just going to avoid the topic all day?” he asks. They’d been going back and forth about the homework due for calc and every time Stan so much as _looks_ like he’s going to say the word baseball Richie whips out another question from the assignment.

It’s a useless tactic. They both know Richie completed the assignment in class on Friday.

“There’s nothing to avoid.”

Bev scoffs and narrows her eyes at Richie. He knows she’s not convinced, but it’s not like it matters. “If you made the team, they’ll be expecting you today after school.”

“Yeah, and if you don’t show up then you really blew it,” Stan agrees. “They’ll probably kick you off for no-showing.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Richie shoots back. He’s right, too. If he made it, someone clearly made a mistake.

“Not to mention you lose the bet,” Bev says and what? Where is she even getting that from? That was in no way part of the original conditions. If he doesn’t make the team, he doesn’t make the team. That’s final.

“What? Fucking how?”

“You’d be bailing on the team. If you made it, you have a commitment to them.”

“And to us,” Stan tacks on.

“Yeah, and to Maggie and Went,” she says for good measure.

Richie stares at them for a moment and sighs before saying, “you guys are taking this whole thing a little too seriously.”

As much as Richie wants to believe he’s right, he knows they’ve got one up on him. If he made the team and doesn’t show up the whole thing is toast. He can say goodbye to Cali and goodbye to his pride because Stan and Bev are already looking at him with smug smiles.

“Fine, I’ll go check now.” Richie stands and dumps what’s left of his lunch before slipping out of the cafeteria. The list is supposed to be posted in the front office and that’s where he heads. He’s going partially to confirm his own suspicions and partially because he wants his friends off his back. the sooner this is confirmed, the sooner he can get back to his normal life.

The secretary at the front desk gives him an odd look when he walks in. The relationship they have is based only on the times Richie has been sent to the principal’s office so when he asks to see the baseball list she’s reasonably shocked. She hands it over, though, without question and he quickly scans it over.

The first half of the list is the varsity boys. Richie gives that a once over. It’s a bunch of names he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care about. It’s the junior varsity boys he’s more interested in. As he reads down the list he sees a bunch of names he still doesn’t recognize. Which, in the long run, makes a lot of sense. He wasn’t there to learn names and make friends. There are really only a few people that he’s invested in which, as he read down, he sees them. One after the other are Jake and Charlie’s names. Richie smiles to himself and does a small fist bump. Though, it might not be too small because the secretary is looking at him and saying, “Made the team, did you now, Tozier?”

Richie shakes his head in response and says, “No, ma’am,” before handing the paper back to her. She smiles sympathetically at him and looks at the sheet herself. Richie shrugs at her and leaves the office. He’s got a pep in his step and a small amount of pride brimming over the edge of his cup. They made it and Richie is undeniably happy for them.

He gets about halfway down the hall when the secretary steps out of her door.

“Mr. Tozier! Wait! I think you’ve made a mistake,” she calls after him. He stops and turns around, leveling her with a confused look to which she replies, “You’ve made the team, dear. Your name is right here at the bottom.”

She points to the bottom of the page and sure enough, in perfect times new roman font is _Richard Tozier_. She smiles a big smile at him and pats him on the shoulder. She says something to him but he doesn’t know what. He can’t hear her over the blood pounding in his ears.

He made the fucking team?

Before he can say something, the bell is ringing and the hall is flooding with students. Richie gets lost in the lobby, so many bodies walking in all different directions around him, so many thoughts whirling in his brain.

 _How in the fuck did this happen?_ Is the only one that he can seem to count on because it repeats like a verse in his head over and over and over again. How the fuck, indeed.

There was no world in which Richie should have ever made the team. He wasn’t the best person in that room, not by a long shot. Richie had no aim, he had no fielding skills, and he wheezed like a squeaky toy whenever he had to run. He was not fit to make the baseball team and he knew that if he were to play a game, he’d be the reason the team loses.

He walks to his next class in a sort of daze. There are two more class blocks before he has to report to the locker room and the fog never seems to lift through either of them. He spends the entire time twisting himself around anxiety, pity, and annoyance, focusing about ten times less than he normally does.

Somewhere between the anxiety of his new reality and the dull thrum of his need to _slow the fuck down,_ he has a realization. He could get in his car and just leave. He could go home and call in sick for the rest of the week. Barricade himself in his room and get himself kicked off the team so he doesn’t have to do this.

Technically speaking, he doesn’t have to do anything. There’s nothing forcing him to go to practice today. There’s nothing forcing him to join the team for real, to claim a number and swing a bat. Force isn’t what makes him run his hands through his hair before tying it up into a messy bun. It’s _excitement_. Well, excitement and a hint of anxiety.

Don’t tell anyone, though. Richie would rather be caught dead than caught excited for this shit.

He makes it until the final bell rings before his hint of anxiety turns into fully fledged anxiety. Holy fucking shit, this is actually happening. He has no fucking clue what he’s going to do. He doesn’t even have Stan’s cleats and glove anymore. He gave those back over the weekend and now he’s up shit creek without a paddle. He debates sending a quick text but decides against it. He can probably muddle through one day without a glove, right? He can just catch with his hand or something.

Yeah. That seems like a good plan.

He’s at least thankful that he never took his duffle bag out of his car and he figures he has enough time to grab it before he has to be in the locker room. He zips through the crowd of students and into the back parking lot where his truck is to grab it and then quickly heads back inside. By the time he gets to the locker room his heart is beating out of his chest. There’s no real way to tell if it’s from the running or the anxiety, but either way he pushes through and claims his locker.

The room is already packed with shirtless guys changing into sweaty workout clothes. Richie can tell right off the bat that it’s way less crowded than it was during tryouts. There must be at least half the number of guys in here than there were at the start of this whole ordeal. And somehow Richie is one of them.

He gets lost in the heat of it for a few moments, changing his clothes on autopilot and just keeping his head down. It doesn’t work for too long, though, because Jake finds him almost immediately.

“Richie! Fuck!” He says as he runs over and practically throws himself onto Richie’s back. “We did it! Look at us, we’re here!”

Jakes laugh is infectious and though Richie can still feel his heart working double time he smiles back.

“Yeah we fucking did. Didn’t doubt us for a second, no sir,” he says in a weird British voice that has Charlie laughing as he walks over.

“Qui, qui!” Jake mocks as he steps away.

They talk for a moment, each of them dressed in their own shitty workout gear before a voice calls them all to the back benches in the room. Both teams gather around. Some people sit on the ground, some lean against lockers, and some just stand and listen to the two boys in the center of the circle. Richie opts for a spot against the lockers on the far edge of the crowd.

“Alright boys! Welcome to the first official day of practice!” Eddie cheers. He’s got a smile on his face and he looks genuinely pleased as he surveys the boys in the room. “As you know, I’m varsity team captain and this is my co-caption, Markus. Coach Lee is the varsity coach for the entire baseball department and Coach Arnold will be the JV coach. The JV team captains will be announced later on in the week. For the first week we’re going to practice together on and off so we can get to know each other, and then we’re going to break off for the rest of the season. We’ll practice together here and there throughout the year. Also, we’ll host our annual scrimmage closer to the middle of the season. It’s just something fun we like to do, a little varsity versus JV. Understood?”

Instead of answering, most of the boys smack the gloves off of the closest surface they can reach. It must be some kind of other language, something to signal that yes sir, they understood, sir. It makes Richie jump and he looks at Jake for a second, fear evident on his face before they both bust out laughing.

“Something funny, boys?” Markus says, stepping forward and narrowing his eyes. Jake shuts up immediate but Richie keeps on for another second. What the fuck is happening? Is this some sort of cultish language everyone else knows but him?

“Yeah, something’s funny! Those gloves just scared the shit out of me!” Richie cries, a wide smile breaking out over his face. Markus narrows his eyes and moves to say something but another boy begin to laugh, too. Richie can see Charlie covering his mouth with his hands. Even Eddie smiles.

It only takes a few seconds for the laughs to die out and Markus says, “Right, well. You’ll get used to it.”

Richie doubts that but then they’re off, grabbing whatever else is needed from their lockers and filing out into the gyms. Richie stands back for a moment and takes a deep breath. As he goes to close his duffle bag he notices something at the bottom. Something brown that definitely wasn’t there before.

Holy fucking shit. Stan is a god among men.

Richie pulls the glove out of his bag and smiles before jogging out to meet the rest of his team.

He’s surprised by how much practice is just like tryouts. It makes sense, he guesses. Running and throwing and stretching and more running. They’re the fundamental parts of baseball. At least, the fundamental parts that he’s seen so far. He really has no idea what to expect but he finds comfort in the familiarity. If he got through tryouts in one piece, he knows he can get through this.

Someone along the way said that today was just a warmup and the real fun begins tomorrow, whatever that means. Then, next week they’ll pick uniforms and get all the gear they need sorted out. Charlie and Jake are already talking about the numbers they want. Jake wants 24 and Charlie want 14. It’s kind of cute and it makes Richie toy with being number 4. They can be referred to as Lord Four-Squad for the entire season. Fuck, that’d be hilarious.

They keep smiles on his face through the duration of practice – not tryouts anymore man this is weird – and Richie thinks if he survives this whole thing it’s going to be because of them. The coaches work them hard, harder than they worked last week. Richie runs faster than he ever has, thrown more than he thought he could, and sweats more than he thinks is humanly possible. There really is no turning back, though. He’s here. He’s accepted his spot on the team, no matter how undeserving he believes he is of it.

At the end of the day, after he’s thoroughly disgusting and changed out of his practice clothes, he stops by Coach Arnold’s office. They’ve never talked one on one but Richie can’t help knocking on his door.

He can’t help asking, “why me?” because god dammit, he needs to know.

Coach Arnold just stops what he’s doing and looks up at Richie, giving him a once over and setting his pen down on the table.

“I like you, Tozier. You’ve got spunk. You don’t seem like a whole lot at first glance, but I’ve been around long enough to see when someone just needs a little nudge in the right direction.”

Right. Spunk.

Richie’s got spunk.

Damn straight, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to leighwrites and oldguybones for beta'ing this chapter for me. And thank you to everyone who commented and gave kudos so far, I am absolutely overwhelmed with the amount of love and support THE FIRST CHAPTER got. I can only hope you guys stick with me through this. Thank you so fucking much.


	3. What The Flick?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smiles as he talks, going over all the various parts of their uniforms. They each get two jerseys, two pairs of pants, four pairs tall game socks, and one under armor shirt for cold games. Together it makes two whole uniforms: a home game uniform that is black with red accents and an away game uniform that is red with black accents. They’re urged to make sure they bring the correct uniform to the correct game, or else they’ll be benched for the game. Richie makes a mental note to leave both uniforms in his truck at all times, just in case.
> 
> Richie watches as people move through the line according to seniority. He doesn’t particularly care about what number he gets, but Jake and Charlie curse his junior status over their own sophomore standing. He ends up grabbing the number twenty-seven and holding it out in front of him. He rolls the polyester in his fingers and feels something in his bones say this is it, this is your number, Richie. He takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Use of slurs.

School is different now. It’s not the kind of different that slams Richie in the face the second he walks through the doors. It’s more of a subtle kind of different. Gradual, almost. Like the way the tide draws further up the shore. Richie knows it’s hardly noticeable at first but if he’s not careful, if he doesn’t move and bend with it, he’ll drown.

It starts during lunch. He can’t help the way his eyes roam the cafeteria for some familiar faces. When you know more people, you’re just more inclined to try to find them in a crowd, right? Exactly. Which is why Richie’s eyes dart back and forth, searching for smiling faces and light brown haircuts. He finds them. They’re lingering on other people in distant ways that Richie can’t quiet place, but they’re there. They even catch his for a moment. It’s slow, intentional, and almost bright the way those eyes lock onto his. Someone waves, someone smiles, and Richie catches himself smiling back.

Bev catches him, turning around to see Jake and Charlie and other boys sitting on the far edge of the room. She gives Richie nothing more than a curious look that sets him on edge for the rest of the period.

_Is everything different now?_

Yes. No – maybe. Richie has no fucking clue. He’s noticing more and being noticed by others. Someone slaps his shoulder as he walks down the hall, and not in an aggressive way. Someone stops him at his locker to congratulate him. A boy he vaguely recognizes sits a little closer to him in calc. Eddie says hi, out loud to him, when they pass each other in the hall.

Richie doesn’t say anything back. He just watches him walk with his square shoulders and his letterman jacket and his posse of friends, untouchable to the outside world. He’s so different now. So unlike that small, fragile boy Richie once knew. There’s no inhaler in his pocket or watch fastened to his wrist. It makes Richie want to turn tail and run, run far away from this spiraling decision as fast as he can. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to lose his curls or his bomber or his truck – all the things that make him who he is. He doesn’t want to reinvent himself and drop his friends and turn a new leaf in a town that doesn’t want him to begin with.

Not that he’s projecting _all_ of that onto Eddie. It’s not fair and he knows that. Eddie had his choices to make, he had his life to protect. After all, he faced far worse consequences for being alive than Richie ever did.

He’s shaken from his thoughts by the harsh sound of metal on metal and the shock of his locker being slammed in his face. He blinks once, trying to process what just happened, before a hand comes down on the back of his neck and pushes him forward. He doesn’t hit the locker with enough force to bruise, but the cold metal string the skin of his cheek.

“I always knew you liked balls, fuck face,” comes from behind. It’s a smooth sinister sneer, one Richie couldn’t mistake even if he tried, “But I never really pegged you for a jock type.”

“I bet it’s the boys that do it for him.” Comes from behind. A deep voice, dumb as hell, no doubt.

“Yeah, maybe it’s the locker rooms.”

“Oh, yeah. Little Faggy McDick Sucker here can’t wait to get undressed with all of his new little boy toys.”

“Fucking disgusting. Do they even know who they’re changing in front of?”

“Maybe we should let them know.”

Fuck. They’ve got him surrounded. Richie counted at least four voices and one of them has his head pressed up against his locker. Bowers’ grip in his hair is tight and he yanks lightly at the back of Richie’s neck while simultaneously pressing his face harder into the metal. The force of it makes him whimper slightly, a burn spreading through his scalp and cheek. “I’m not even gay, you uncultured swine.”

“Pick a fucking team,” someone spits.

“He did, he picked the entire baseball team,” comes from behind him and some masochistic, suicidal part of him wants to moan and shoot off some snide comment about how he’s _so turned on right now, so ready for whatever Bowers and his gang throw at him_ but he knows it’s a literal death wish. He’s come away with enough black eyes and broken glasses to know where the line is. If it were just Henry and it wasn’t school, yeah maybe. But for now, Richie is thankful that it’s in the middle of the school day and these guys are dumb as fuck because soon there’s a booming voice of a teacher and he’s being released. There’s a chorus of _nothing_ when they’re asked what is happening and soon they’re scattering, leaving Richie to pick up his books and reopen his locker.

He should know better than to let it get to him at this point, but it claws at his insides the way nothing else in this world could. He can’t just let Bowers roll off his shoulders the way he might with something else. Henry Bowers is the culmination of every evil thing Derry has to offer, inside and outside the walls of this high school prison. Richie has never been safe from it, not for one second. Bowers once chased him right up to his own front door, not stopping until Richie was inside and the door was locked. Now, that was years ago but it still lingers in Richie’s memory. He can still feel the drop in his stomach when he saw there was no car in the driveway. He can still feel the shake in his hands when he sprinted inside, as deep into the house as he could go, and locked himself in his parents closet until they got home.

They had asked him what was wrong and he just laughed and said he’d been waiting for them, he wanted to scare them. Ha, ha, he guesses it didn’t work. They caught him.

No one ever mentioned the dried tears on his face.

It takes every ounce of self-control that Richie has for him to not slam his locker shut and scream. Any ounce of excitement he was feeling was sucked out of him, dragged along the floor of the hallway by the boys retreating in the opposite direction. It consumes him so much that when Ben Hanscom comes over to ask if he’s okay, he just grunts and stalks off towards his history class.

Ben’s a nice kid and all, but Richie doesn’t have the emotional capacity to handle that guy right now. He’s sunshine and flowers and gentle and, somehow, a track and field superstar. They’ve had maybe two conversations in their entire lives and this isn’t the time for number three.

He slams his backpack down into the seat maybe a little too hard and Bev, ever the observer, shoots him a solid look from her seat across the room. Normally she’d be right next to him and all over this shit like white on rice, but the teacher caught onto their antics a little too soon and she got moved to the opposite corner. So, instead of turning around and outright demanding an explanation, Richie feels his phone buzz over and over again in his pocket.

He’d ignore it but, well, she’s glaring absolute daggers into his forehead.

_What happened you ask, my dear Bev? One Henry Bowers made sure my face was well acquainted with the ever so sanitary lockers of our beloved high school. What happened this time? Apparently, I am both too gay and too straight for his liking, he’d appreciate it if I watered down my sexuality for him. Am I going to do something about it? What, do I have a fucking death wish? Of course, I’m not. No, baseball isn’t giving me some super human bicep muscles I can punch him in the face with. I’m not any faster, either. I don’t know why you’re asking. Actually, you know what. That isn’t such a bad idea. We’ll have to charge it to your card, though. Went will drill me for hours if he sees a charge on mine for a hardware store._

Neither of them pays attention to the lesson. Richie’s got his grade locked down and Bev just doesn’t give a shit about history. She really leaning into the whole ‘worst subject’ mentality now that Richie offered to help her on her papers. She’s lucky he loves her.

By the end of it he’s feeling better. Her messages have changed from angry exhortations to meaningless emojis being rocketed back and forth. He’s honestly surprised the professor hasn’t caught them yet, but maybe she’s just exhausted. Richie and Bev have been giving her a run for her money since day one.

When the bell rings, Bev’s already got her bag packed and she catches Richie before he’s even out of his desk with a quick, “Hey, you’ve got practice tonight?”

“Yes, I have practice after school every day until the end of time.” He can’t help but chuckle at the way she pouts. “C’mon, Bev. This was your idea.”

“I know, but I miss you! Can’t we do something soon?” She drapes herself over his side as he stands, leaning most of her weight into him as they walk out into the hallway together. He wraps an arm around her shoulder so casually that he almost doesn’t notice it. Her voice is a high pitch whine that she uses to get what she wants. Normally, he’d be her unwilling victim. “I want to run lines with you.”

“It’s been three days.”

“Yeah, three days without you!”

He laughs a full belly laugh at that. “You didn’t see me before I made the team!”

She gapes at him, objectively offended at his accusation. “First off, yes I did _Richard_ don’t pull that shit. Second, it’s all about the opportunity! I can’t just come over if I know you’re not free.”

She’s got a finger up for every point she listed and she looks ready to keep going, but he cuts her off before she can. “Don’t you have play shit to be doing, _Blouse_ y?”

“I do, which is why I want to run lines with my favorite scene partner.”

Richie bites his lower lip and waggles his eyebrows at her before saying, “You know, I saw someone who’d make an excellent scene partner in the hall earlier.” He ends his statement with a purr and she turns an excellent shade of red, hardening her eyes and puffing out her chest.

“Fuck you, Dickard,” she spits and turns on her heels. She gets partway down the hall before looks over her shoulders and winks at him. He winks back and when she continues forward she shimmies her shoulders. He laughs again, a bright, happy thing bubbling up out of his chest as he shuts his locker and starts off toward the gyms.

It’s been too cold for the team to practice outside on their field, which means it’s too cold for every other outdoor sport to go out, too. This leaves them alternating who gets to use the gyms and who doesn’t. The track team is huge and it monopolizes the bigger of the three gyms. The padded wrestling gym isn’t very useful to the baseball team, so that leaves one gym in rotation between the tennis team, the softball team, and the lacrosse team. Today, thankfully, is a gym day for the baseball team and Richie is pumped to get the ball rolling. Or throwing. Whatever the expression is now.

The past few days they’ve been in the hallway for practice. This is, obviously, not ideal. They aren’t allowed to bat or throw in the hall so the team has been doing a lot of endurance training. Richie doesn’t think he’s ever done so many wall sits in his entire life. They also do rock climbs, stair sprints, and run suicides up the length of the hall in very small groups. Yesterday they even did an Indian run, which made Richie want to collapse. It’s a test of both pace and energy, pushing each boy to test their strength and speed in small bursts while reserving energy and breath for the rest of the run. To make a long story short, it’s hell.

Running is a backbone of baseball, apparently. No one told this to Richie. He walked in here thinking they would only run a little bit.

Scratch that, actually. He walked in here thinking he wouldn’t even make the team. And now he’s running several miles every day? Fuck this. He’s ready for a break.

Jake and Charlie meet him in the locker room. They’ve already got their practice clothes on and they’ve got their mitts in their hand, a surefire sign that today’s the day that actually play some real fucking baseball. He joins them as quick as he can, shooting the shit almost immediately.

There’s a smaller, varsity locker room in the back of the general locker room that Richie’s never been in before. He honestly never thought he’d ever go in there, but Jake motions for him to follow and he does. It’s nothing impressive, just a smaller space with bigger lockers and a door that leads outside. It’s a faster way to get to their field and apparently, once the weather is nice, they’ll leave through this door instead of the main doors.

None of the varsity boys are in there, but the majority of the JV boys are. Richie takes in each of their faces as the last couple of boys straggle in. Jake and Charlie talk beside him but he doesn’t listen. Being here, in this small room with the rest of his team, is when he feels it for the first time. It’s a creeping sort of elation that starts in the base of his chest and threatens to overtake his entire body. Yeah, technically he’s been on the team for the entire week but it has never felt like this before. These guys, these random strangers he couldn’t point out in a crowd two weeks ago, are his teammates. His _baseball_ teammates. He’s on the fucking _baseball team_.  

“This is where we’ll have our team meetings,” Coach Arnold says. His voice is deep, gruff in the way that older men’s voices get sometimes. “So, welcome to your first official team meeting!”

Some of the boys cheer around them, others knock at each other with their elbows. Jake stands between Charlie and Richie and he throws an arm over each of their shoulders. His smile is big and contagious and he jostles them both a little bit, leaving himself comfortably draped over both of them.

“You are officially on the Junior Varsity baseball team. I know some of you already, but some of you are new faces. I like that. For those of you who don’t know, today is the day we’re going to pick out our uniforms. Choice goes by seniority, so the players who have been here the longest get to go first. Because we’ve got so many new faces, when we get to our newest bunch we’ll go by grade level so you don’t fight to the death.”

He smiles as he talks, going over all the various parts of their uniforms. They each get two jerseys, two pairs of pants, four pairs tall game socks, and one under armor shirt for cold games. Together it makes two whole uniforms: a home game uniform that is black with red accents and an away game uniform that is red with black accents. They’re urged to make sure they bring the correct uniform to the correct game, or else they’ll be benched for the game. Richie makes a mental note to leave both uniforms in his truck at all times, just in case.

Richie watches as people move through the line according to seniority. He doesn’t particularly care about what number he gets, but Jake and Charlie curse his junior status over their own sophomore standing. He ends up grabbing the number twenty-seven and holding it out in front of him. He rolls the polyester in his fingers and feels something in his bones say _this is it, this is your number, Richie_ and he takes it.

The whole thing takes almost an hour between the lectures Coach Arnold gives them about team rules and the actual uniform sorting. When they’re all done and have their required uniforms in hand, Jake with the number twenty-four and Charlie with the number eighteen, they head into the gym. The varsity team is already in there, seemingly waiting for the JV boys to come out.

“I think we’re only with them for two more days,” Charlie whispers. Another boy, one Richie never bothered to learn the name of, confirms and they all nod in understanding. Richie really isn’t sure what to expect today. Are they going to haze them? Are they going to work them to the core? Are they going to make fun of how bad Richie is at baseball?

Probably all three.

Once everyone is in the gym, they take three laps around the gym. Richie huffs through the whole thing, but it’s easier than it was before. His legs and lungs burn in unison but he can do this. He’s been doing it for days and now that he knows he can, there’s no excuse for him to fall behind, so he keeps his pace in the center of the pack and finishes with his friends. They stretch and loosen up before taking a knee in front of the coaches.

“Alright, boys. It’s a shorter practice today because of uniforms. Our teams are basically even numbered, so Varsity boys, pick a junior player to pair up with. He’s yours for the rest of the day,” Coach Lee shouts and everyone stands. It’s a blur of movement as boys he doesn’t know walk up to other boys he doesn’t know. Some walk up to boys he _does_ know and soon he’s almost alone in the empty crowd. Everyone pairs up and talks to their partner, giving introductions and formalities and reassurances. Everyone except for Richie. Jake’s got some bigger buy with jet black hair and a Charlie’s got some shorter guy. Markus is off with some JV kid he’s yet to talk to and –

“Tozier, looks like you’re my partner.”

Well, it looks like Eddie is right there.

“Uh.” Richie blinks twice, taking in the boy in front of him. His sandy blonde hair is styled back and short on the sides, framing the front of his face and his ears. His shoulders are broader than Richie’s, but Richie has a couple of inches on him. Where Eddie is light, Richie is dark. Where Richie is pale, Eddie is tan. It’s such a stark contrast that it takes him a few seconds to process. “Looks like it.”

“Cool, Coach Arnold asked me to pick one of his outfielders and you were on the list,” Eddie chirps in response. “We’re gonna work on techniques today. Throwing short and long distance. That cool?”

“You’re the captain, dude, you tell me,” Richie says. His voice is smooth and even, and he throws a crooked smile at Eddie to let him know he’s only poking fun.

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Eddie shrugs. Richie appreciates it, but seriously. Who is he to say no to Eddie? What, is he gonna say _no thank you mister team captain boy. I’m going to go spin in circles in the outfield and –_ wait.

“I’m an outfielder?” Richie asks, brain finally catching up to Eddie’s previous words. The shock must show on his face because Eddie laughs gently and nods. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Eddie laughs harder at that. “You catch anything that makes it past the infielders and throw them in. Pop flies, fast grounders, and anything that just slipped through.” Richie doesn’t respond, just holds a steady gaze. “Infielders are the people who play first base, second base, third base, and shortstop. Pitcher and catcher are technically infield, too.”

“Oh,” is all Richie can say at first. He puts it together easily and figures out he’s one of the people who stands in the grass and waits. He chews it over for a second before asking, “How do they know I’m an outfielder? All we’ve done is run.”

“They watched you at tryouts. You’ve got one hell of an arm and you didn’t go for catcher, so they figured you’d do your best in the grass where you can throw from the back fence to the bases,” he says it with a smile. Eddie’s mitt smacks Richie’s arm gently and he adds, “Plus you screamed whenever we hit balls directly toward you.”

“Anyone who stands there and waits for that shit to hit you is insane!” Richie cries and Eddie snorts. He doesn’t dignify Richie with a response, just motions for him to follow and grabs a few baseballs.

Richie does, and soon they’re standing along one edge of the gym as Eddie shows him how to hold a ball. Pointer and middle finger on a stitch, thumb on a stitch. This, apparently, will give Richie a better grip. Eddie corrects him a few times and demonstrates until he’s satisfied.

“Okay, throw it.”

Richie does and Eddie catches it. It’s slightly more accurate than his throws at tryouts and it sparks a small beam of pride in him. Well, until he notices the look on Eddie’s face. Its sour and unimpressed, exactly the opposite of what Richie was feeling only a second ago.

“What? That was good! You didn’t have to run to catch it!” Richie cries, full on defensiveness coming out in him.

“Yeah, that was fine,” Eddie waves, completely brushing off his accomplishment. What the fuck? Richie closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. Who the fuck does Eddie think he is? Yeah, he might be the team captain but little victories are little victories, man. It makes something boil in his chest, something harsh and ready to come out. He’s halfway to opening his mouth when Eddie crosses the space between them and walks right up to him. “You’re throwing wrong.”

What?

“What the fuck do you mean I’m ‘throwing wrong?’ I’m throwing the ball!” Richie makes exaggerated air quotes around Eddie’s words and he’s sure his frustration is seeping out through his tone. Eddie, again, pays him no mind. He’s gaze is locked on Richie’s throwing arm.

“You’re throwing wrong,” he says again, voice a little far away. “You’re throwing from your side.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, captain,” Richie shoots back. He puts his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Eddie says, finally meeting Richie’s eyes with his own. They’re intense, a blue gray that leans more toward gray. There’s a concerned glint in them that makes Richie’s attitude stop in its tracks. “When you throw from your side it wears on your elbow. You keep at it you’re going to fuck your joints up.”

Oh.

Richie softens at that, dropping his arms to his side and watching as Eddie raises his own arm above his head. “Bring your arm back and up, let your chest twist with it. Keep it above your head at a ninety-degree bend in your elbow.” Richie watches as Eddie does exactly what he’s saying, twisting his trunk to give way to the angle his arm is at above his head. “Then you push with your arm, extend your elbow, and flick your wrist.”

Eddie demonstrates slowly, repeating the motion and asking Richie to do the same. He makes Richie do it again and again and again until Richie can’t help but roll his eyes and Eddie can’t help but huff.

“What’s the issue this time?”

“Your wrist,” Eddie says in the same distant tone of voice. Richie watches Eddie’s eyes stay locked on his wrist as he, yet again, does the correct throwing motion. “Not enough flick.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Richie says incredulously.

The tone must translate this time because Eddie’s attention snaps up and crosses his arms. “Listen, Richie. I saw you out there last week, I saw what you’re capable of. I think you could be good, but your technique is all fucked up. You need to learn the right way to do shit to get the best throw without hurting yourself.”

Silence passes between them and Richie thinks about leaving, storming off and letting Eddie go find another partner. This was ridiculous. Eddie was nitpicking him for no fucking reason. This was baseball, not spinal surgery. He could easily walk off, say he needed a cool down run and willfully do a lap around the gym. He’s honestly not sure what’s the better option here: being told you suck or running.

“Are you going to let me help you or what?”

Richie sighs and nods. Running is definitely the worst choice here. Eddie nods in response and tells Richie to get down on his knees. He does the same, roughly three feet from Richie. “Hold your mitt at chest level, don’t move it unless you have to,” he says and then he raises his arm at a ninety-degree angle over his head, just like he showed Richie to do, and he flicks his wrist. A ball Richie didn’t realize he was holding shoots out and lands directly in Richie’s glove. “Now you.”

Richie repeats the motion. The ball leaves his hand with far less force than Eddie’s flick and Eddie has to extend his hand to catch it. He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking out loud, Richie can read it in his eyes.

_See? Not enough flick, asshole._

They go back and forth, Richie intentionally trying to match Eddie’s force with his own. It’s harder than he thought it would be. He never thought of throwing as a wrist thing and the more they do it the more the muscles begin to strain ever so slightly. His arm starts to grow tired where it’s held above his head. Eventually, his muscles scream but his accuracy gets better. He pays attention to the way Eddie’s glove moves less and less to catch his tosses.

Right as Richie thinks his arms is going to fall off or his wrist is going to break, Eddie lowers his own arms.  An involuntary sigh of relief escapes Richie and Eddie smiles at him. He wordless stands and walks a decent distance before turning around and saying, “Throw me the ball.”

Richie does, using the same technique Eddie showed him. Eddie catches it easily and smiles. “Already better.”

Something akin to pride wells up in Richie’s chest and he beams back at Eddie. They continue to throw the ball back and forth, Eddie creating a greater distance every couple of throws. Richie has no idea what’s going on around him, he has no idea what any of the other guys are doing. All he can think about is how, eventually, they’re throwing the length of the gym. Richie doesn’t do the skip throw, so almost all of his throws bounce before they reach Eddie but he’s learned that a bounce can be a good thing. Accuracy and power are the most important, as long as they’re reaching their target then the throw is good. And boy are Richie’s throws getting more accurate.

Richie likes throwing, he decides. He likes playing catch. This is something he never really did as a child. Went would ask him if he wanted to go outside, kick a ball around or toss a baseball back and forth, but Richie never got into it. He could do this all day, now. Yeah, his arm hurts. Sure, he likes batting. But there’s something satisfying in the sound the leather makes when one of Richie’s throws land right in Eddie’s glove. There’s something settling deep inside of him as Eddie pushing him to throw harder and farther. It’s a silly thing to be so proud of, but he can’t help it.

The sound of the whistle nearly sends Richie out of his own skin and he turns his attention to where the coaches stand in the middle of the gym. He so startled that he doesn’t hear Eddie’s warning cry before a baseball connects with the side of his jaw.

It doesn’t hit him hard, but it’s enough to send him stumbling to the side and to attract the attention of most of the team. Someone says _shit!_ and Eddie is suddenly at his side, hands on his arms to stabilize him.

“Richie! Fuck, I’m sorry!” Eddie looks worried at first, almost scared, but as soon as he realizes Richie is okay, he dissolves into a small fit of giggles.  Richie joins him and so do some other guys. Coach Lee shakes his head from the center of the room but he’s smiling, too. “You have the attention span of a spoon!”

They both get a stern look from the coaches before the end of practice _good job_ is said and then they’re dismissed. Eddie checks on Richie one more time and apologizes about twenty more times, laughing through the whole thing. Richie laughs, too, despite the dull ache beginning to spread across his jaw. Fuck, that might actually bruise. He rubs his face gently.

“You sure got a fucking arm on you, don’cha Kaspbrak? This is payback, isn’t it?”

“Yes, for your awful attitude today,” Eddie cuts and Richie fakes a dramatic gunshot wound to the chest, stumbling backwards and clutching at his shirt.

“Oh, you wound me!”

“Yeah, literally,” Eddie snorts and then he’s gone, jogging off to the other side of the gym to help Marcus clean up the equipment. Richie watches him go and he thinks back to distant memories of a similar sight. Playgrounds never really were a sustainable reality, he supposes.

Richie can’t blame him for anything. He doesn’t want to, either. Eddie is the kind of guy that, no matter what, Richie thinks he would always like. He’s got this natural charm about him, a funny wit that’s probably still there even though they haven’t said more than ten words to each other in the past five years. It almost makes Richie wonder what’s changed. It makes him wonder what’s going to change next. First Eddie’s speaking him again. Then what? Will it be good or will it want to make him throw himself away from here? Will it change everything or will nothing shift at all?

He doesn’t know and he’s anxious to find out, but time crawls at a snail’s pace when you’re looking to the future. And Richie knows that there’s nothing slower than intentional anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 3 is here! Thank you all for the continued support it means the world to me. This story is my baby and I love it with my whole ass heart, I hope you all do.


	4. Get'cha Head in the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Show ‘em how it’s done, T! Just like before!” Jake screams and Richie just shakes under the pressure. He shakes and cracks because he doesn’t know how he did it the first time. He doesn’t even remember the first time, even though it’s only been maybe an hour. In the second inning he allegedly got up, swung on the first pitch, and knocked it clear into left field. He doesn’t remember, though. There’s nothing in his mind besides static and doubt. Robotics seem to take over his body and he automatically steps into the batter’s box and gets into position. 
> 
> The pitcher stares him down, brows furrowed and eyes steel and he winds his arm up. Richie just raises his bat in response and when the time comes, he swings.

There’s no discernible reason that Richie is in this situation. Really, there isn’t. Sure, someone could trace back every decision he made up until now that landed him in this spot but that doesn’t make it any better. It doesn’t change anything.

There he is, positioned out in right field and watching as their pitcher raises his mitt to his face, brings his knee up, and winds that ball down the mound. There’s an audible crack of the bat, to which almost everyone winces, before the entire team is moving in their required directions. Several weeks of drills have given Richie somewhat of an idea of what’s expected of him. The ball sails over the shortstops head and into the space that connects left and center field and everyone converges in and out. Someone stands at first base, the second baseman stands between first and second, short stop goes to second, and third lingers around the infield in case something goes wrong. They create the perfect line so if the required recipient misses the ball, there’s always someone behind him to grab it.

Speed, however, just doesn’t seem to be their friend today. Richie watches the left fieldsman grab the ball and throw to shortstop, who throws to first base, but by the time the ball connects with the final glove it’s too late. There’s a runner on first.

This has been the theme for the entire game and it’s absolutely soul crushing. Everyone is forced to watch again and again as they struggle through making outs. The inning changes come fast for them and slow for the other team, showing just how much better they are than the Cardinals. They’re much more in sync, much more experienced. There’s a bubble of shame lingering in the pocket of Richie’s chest when they’re in the dugout and he watches them move as a unit instead of the warbling mess that his team is.

Well, it’s mostly himself that’s a warbling mess. He can’t keep his head on straight under the pressure of his very first game. Richie is normally the kind of boy who performs well under pressure, but unfortunately with no crowd to scream his name and no clear-cut skill to play this game he’s fumbling with everything he’s got. He desperately wanted Bev or Stan or his parents or literally anyone to be in those stands cheering for him, but no one could make it out. It’s just their luck that the first game is an away game, just far enough out that no one could seem to swing it.

It’s been a few weeks and Richie really can’t say he’s gotten any more used to his new routine. Time is just slipping away from him, dripping right through his fingertips no matter how tightly he tries to hold onto it. Before he knew it, the week was gone. And then the next week, and the one after that. He spent so much time going from class to practice to homework to sleep that he can’t even register how much free time he used to have. Things are so much tighter now, so much more restricted. Bev and Stan watched as he struggled to shift his gears. Gone are the days where he can wait until midnight to start a paper. He’s out like a light by the time ten o’clock rolls around. Who fucking knew being an athlete would make him so damn tired?

It's like his whole entire life has been upended and he’s being forced to be a new person entirely. It’s the New Richie Tozier, ladies and gentlemen. Version 2.0. Comes complete with a physical workout routine built in on school days, a new and improved sleep schedule, and a somewhat more concrete will to live. And by will to live, he means something that he’s being pushed towards, a commitment, something that he’s got his eyes on.

Right now, that something is a baseball rocketing toward him at who fucking knows miles per hour. It zips between first and second base and hits the ground. Richie knows what to do, he’s done it a thousand times in practice, but there are nerves creeping their way into his arms and throat and tongue as he runs forward. Someone’s running toward him, going to take position behind him in case he misses but the thought of missing this play is devastating to him. The fucking thing is coming right at him, he hardly has to move at all. All he’s got to do is get in front of it, bend his knees, and ready his mitt. He does it, gets his whole entire body in front of the ball so as it hits the ground and bounces he’s right there to catch it or block it or do whatever he needs to do with it.

Time almost slows in that comical way that it does in teen romance movies sans the romance. This is baseball but for some strange reason Richie can see in high definition slow motion. He sees small pieces of grass fly up and the stitches of the ball rotating as it comes up off the ground. He can feel his muscles constricting and retracting as he raises his glove up high, palm down so he doesn’t break his nose. The ball comes at him mind numbingly slow and there’s the blur of lethargic voices in his ear but nothing matters when it connects with the leather of his mitt. His fingers automatically close around it and he hears someone scream his name.

Time snaps back into normal speed and it leaves Richie standing there in almost a dumb state of shock because what the actual fuck, he can’t believe he actually grabbed it. Someone is screaming _first! first!_ but it takes an entire second to reach Richie’s motor cortex. Reflexes completely take over and he takes a solid step forward, throwing his entire momentum as he hurls the ball towards the first baseman. It’s close, Richie can see the runner sweating and huffing and pushing as fast as he can and it leaves them all helpless to watch. Who will get there first? Will they have another runner on base or will the fifth inning finally close out? Its torture as time slows again and Richie never fucking thought anything could be as stressful as this. He brings his glove up to his head and holds it with his free hand and watches, watches, watches.

There’s nothing that Richie hates more than waiting. He’s not a patient boy. He’s been yelled at more times than he can count for lying on his horn while waiting for one of his friends to come out of their house. He doesn’t like to wait for shows or food or plans to be made. More often than not, he swallows his words and impatience and frustration down his throat because he can’t be that guy. He doesn’t want to be the one who breaks and snaps at inconveniences but it sits inside of him then and it sits inside of him now.

A cleat connects with the base and a ball connect with a glove and silence settles over the field. Everyone waits on baited breath as the umpire stands at the base, stares at the space between the runner and the ball and just fucking stands there like he knows everyone is waiting on his word.

“Out!”

Fucking mother shit balls holy fucking hell. Someone crashes into his back, throwing both of them forward and forcing Richie to stumble to catch his balance. “Richie, nice fucking play!”

Richie doesn’t reply, he just grins his stupid fucking grin like it’s a contagious sickness and they jog towards their dugout together. Jake meets him halfway, coming from third base to throw his entire body into Richie’s side. His arm comes to wrap around Richie’s shoulder and he’s hollering some incomprehensible cheer as they crash into the dugout together. Players come up to him and jostle his shoulders. They smack him with their mitts and cheer his name. Someone tosses him a bottle and he doesn’t even have any time to process what happened before he crashes down on the bench and takes a long drink of water.

“Fucking amazing, Rich,” Jake smiles, taking his seat right next to Richie. He tosses his own glove under the bench and takes his hat off, slipping his scrunchie off and shaking the sweat out of his hair. Two boys have already grabbed bats and are warming up while the other team warms up their arms. Richie isn’t up for another four batters so he just slips his scrunchie around his wrist and leans back against the dugout wall. Someone passes around a bag of sunflower seeds, someone hollers something encouraging to the team, and Jake pulls a throw blanket out of his bag to rest on both of their laps. “We can still come back, you know. It ain’t over yet.”

“That it ain’t, Jakey boy,” Richie hums. He pops a few seeds into his mouth when they get to him. He sucks on them, taking the salty and flavor off the shell before cracking in and finding the actual seed. The other team is up four runs to their measly one and it’s felt like they’ve been barely holding their heads above water for the entire game. The Cardinals JV team somehow managed to score one run in the first inning, and while they felt like a huge victory at the time they haven’t managed to get anywhere near home plate since then. “It ain’t over until the fat boy swings.”

“That’s an outdated expression,” Jake replies and there’s some swift, smug smile on his face as he pops a few seeds into his own mouth. Jake is nothing but a wave calm collected cool that Richie can’t help but be jealous of. He has no idea how Jake manages to do it. This is their first game for fucks sake, how is he so calm right now? Richie has been a shaking ball of nervous energy about it since they got their game schedule a few weeks ago.

“It is. Who ever said fat people can’t play sports, eh? ‘Sides, we don’t got no fat boys on our team,” Richie muses. He sweeps his arm out in a dramatic gesture as if to make his point. Jake’s eyes follow his arm as they survey the dugout. Jake passively snorts next to him, his attention turning on the pitcher as he flashes three fingers at the catcher. Pitch, catch, two fingers. Soon the inning will start and if they’re lucky they won’t turn the inning in three batters.

“I guess we’ll be in this game forever, then.”

“What a shame. The world will be deprived of our timeless sense of humor and our dashing good looks.” Richie can’t help but smile at the way Jake barks out a laugh. He smacks Richie on the arm and grins something wholesome at him before turning his attention back to the field. Number ten steps up to bat and Richie takes another handful of sunflower seeds from the bag and sits forward.

He can’t remember a time in his life he’s ever felt so focused. There’s something captivating in the suspense of it all. Tension fills the dugout while they wait for the pitcher to wind up and throw the ball, blood pressure spikes when number ten swings and misses.

“Wait for your pitch!” someone calls out in encouragement. Number ten shoots a quick glance at the dugout, unsure of who said it, and give a curt nod in response. The pitcher winds up again and Richie holds his fucking breath as the ball spins out of his fingertips. It sails down the mound and the batter raises his bat. He holds it, though, and silence rings out.

“Ball.”

Richie lets his breath go and stands. Jake joins him against the fence. “Atta boy! Keep your eye on.”

Another nod as they set up. Richie reaches out and grasps the fence. His heart hammers in his chest as the pitcher winds up yet again but this time the crack of the bat echoes through the field and number ten takes off down the baseline. The entire field lights up with sound and movement as the opposite team scrambles to the ball and the Cardinals whoop and holler for ten. He’s fast, maybe the fastest guy on the team, and everyone screams and cheers when he connects with first base and stays there.

“Fuck, yes! Way to kill it, man. Way to show that ball who’s boss!” Excitement courses through Richie’ veins as he calls out encouragements. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying but he won’t be surprised if he gets pulled aside later for cursing. He doesn’t care, though. The second batter is stepping up to the plate and the basemen are back into position.

Number seven swings on the first pitch and hits the ball. It flies between the first and second baseman and number ten takes off toward second. Richie screams his voice raw for seven to run, fucking move it dude but it’s useless because by the time seven reaches first base the ball is back and he’s out. Ten calls out words of encouragement as seven walks back into the dugout. He’s met with high fives and a water bottle and, despite being the first out of the inning, he wears a smile on his face as he lines up right next to Jake.

There’s something interesting about how, even when you fail, there’s a positive spin to it in this game. Yeah, seven got out but he pushed ten up to second base. He’s just that much closer to scoring. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to bring in the second run of the game. And if they get one more run, what’s to stop them from getting two more, or three? What’s to stop them from evening out the score? Or fuck, maybe even winning?

Coach Arnold steps into the dugout from his place by first base and calls in, “Tozier, you’re on deck.”

This effectively shakes Richie from his thoughts, and from the game. He steps back from the fence and Jake shoots him a comforting smile and pulls a pair of batting gloves from his pocket. Taking them, Richie steps away and goes to grab his yellow bat. He makes quick work of tying his hair back up and slipping on a helmet before stepping out into the little circle designated for the next batter.

Any noise from the game fades away. He can’t hear his teammates cheering or his coach talking or the other team speaking. There’s so much energy inside of him, so much nervousness spilling into and out of him. It overrides every other sense he has. His knees shake as he watches the pitcher and tries to time his practice swings out. Eddie taught him how to time his swings: watch the pitcher, watch the ball, swing when you think it’s within hitting range. Doesn’t really matter if it’s a ball or a strike, timing is the most important thing to practice. You’ll be able to judge balls and strikes and whatever else once you’re in the batter’s box, but in that circle, in that practice zone, you’re trying to time the speed of those specific pitches. When the time comes to swing for real, that’s going to be the most useful knowledge to have.

Richie remembers how Eddie looked when he spoke. He asked the varsity pitcher to pitch for them so he could demonstrate. His grey eyes were clouded with determination as he watched the pitcher, watched the ball, and timed his swing.

_I think you could be good, Richie._

He had Richie do the same thing. Over and over again until he thought Richie had the right idea. He must have been wrong, though, because Richie doesn’t know anything as he stands there and watches this real-life pitcher in this real-life game. All of Richie’s pseudo-confidence has fallen out of his body. It sits in a puddle under his feet that he’s forced to leave behind as the batter, number two, gets walked. He makes his way down the baseline and smiles at Richie, flashing a quick thumbs up and, well, fuck. Looks like it’s his time to shine.

“Show ‘em how it’s done, T! Just like before!” Jake screams and Richie just shakes under the pressure. He shakes and cracks because he doesn’t know how he did it the first time. He doesn’t even remember the first time, even though it’s only been maybe an hour. In the second inning he allegedly got up, swung on the first pitch, and knocked it clear into left field. He doesn’t remember, though. There’s nothing in his mind besides static and doubt. Robotics seem to take over his body and he automatically steps into the batter’s box and gets into position.

The pitcher stares him down, brows furrowed and eyes steel and he winds his arm up. Richie just raises his bat in response and when the time comes, he swings.

“Strike!”

Fucking shit. He steps out of the box again and shakes his head. It’s freezing cold, hardly even April yet, but he can feel sweat running down the back of his neck. His arms itch under his long sleeve and he hopes to god he hits the next pitch because he needs to run, needs shake this feeling from his body.

“Come on, two seven!”

Once he’s back in the box, only a second later, the pitcher winds up again and the only thing Richie can think about is Eddie and his misplaced confidence and his fucking timed swings. He’s so fucking far away, they’re not even on the same field, but his voice rings out in Richie’s ears. He can’t remember the last time the two of them even spoke now Eddie seems to pay more attention to him. Maybe it’s like rain after a drought, but Richie notices the way Eddie gravitates toward him during practice. He notices how Eddie offers him tips and tricks and advice. They only ever talk about baseball, but Richie can’t shake the undertones away. He didn’t even know he missed Eddie until he was suddenly back in his life again, laughing and smiling and talking to him about some stupid game he didn’t know he liked playing.

“Strike two!”

What – fucking? How the hell? This whole thing is getting inside of his head, apparently because how the fuck did he miss that? Fucking – stupid as hell. This isn’t okay. he knows he’s got to get his shit together, he can’t just stand by as perfectly good balls pass him by, lost in his own thoughts and nervousness and whatever else he was lost in.

The frustration of missing an entire pitch is enough to kick Richie into gear and he steps back into the box and keeps his eyes on the ball. Nothing else but the ball.

It comes down the center of the field but it comes low and Richie holds his swing. There’s nothing more satisfying than the way the umpire screams, _ball!_ and his team cheers behind the fence.

Aright, Richie. Come on. The count is 1-2 with one out. There are runners on first and second, if you can just hit the ball, even if it’s just a grounder in the infield, you’ll help the team. Ten can go to third. Fuck, maybe he’ll come home. Two might go to second and then you’ll all be so much closer to scoring.

When the ball comes, Richie swings with all of his might, his eyes reflexively closing with the force of it. His whole body twists and the bat taps his back but fucking hell, it isn’t enough. He didn’t see it happen, but he could hear the ball connect with the leather of the mitt behind him and for a brief second, he wishes that he swung hard enough to break his body in half.

“Strike three, you’re out!”

Richie just stands there for a moment to let everything catch up with him. First, he didn’t even know how he hit the ball, now he doesn’t know how he struck out. There’s no changing it, though, and there’s no stopping the game from moving on. Charlie jogs out to the plate and pats Richie on the back as he passes and Richie gives him a weak smile before he’s back in the dugout, pulling his helmet off and gently lobbing it over to the rest of the batting equipment.

It’s hard to quell the disappointment crushing his ribs but he manages to shake it off of his face as Jake meets him by the cooler. “He gotcha out there.”

“Sure did, buddy,” is all Richie can say back.

Jake passes him a silent look and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Next time, yeah?”

Richie pauses for a second and regards the boy in front of him. The look on his face is sympathetic, but also somehow challenging. As if he wants Richie to shit talk himself just so Jake can fight back. Just so he can throw it all to the wind. He must have seen the look in Richie’s eyes when he came back from the field, because Richie isn’t sure if he’s ever seen this look on Jake’s face before. “You fucking know it.”

Jake holds out his hand and they do that weird bro handshake back clap thing that Richie is still so, so bad at but it makes him feel better.

Somewhere amidst their watercooler talk, the inning turns over. Ten never quite made it home so the score stays at a disappointing five to one with the other team at the advantage. Richie slips his baseball hat on and takes his place in right field. He warms up with the other outfielders, throwing between the spaces with their own pitcher warms up.

The game isn’t quite a shutout, but it’s not good. When they close out the ninth inning, the score is six to one and there’s something sad about the way they move as a unit. The dugout is quiet as people help pack up the bats and balls. Someone loads a bag with the helmets and two more people dump the water cooler. The pitcher helps the catcher with his gear and everyone heads toward the bus. Altogether, the only sounds that can be heard are quiet whispers among friends and the sounds of plastic and metal as they’re loaded up.

Even Jake and Charlie, who normally manage to keep some level of pep in their step, look solemn. It was a rough game, and for them to get killed on their first game as a team – Richie’s first game _ever_ – is hard.

To top matters off, the bus ride back isn’t short. They traveled about an hour out to the school they were playing against and now they have to ride back. It wasn’t so bad the first time around but now they have to sit in their own defeat.

Richie can only stand it for twenty or so minutes. He can’t handle the way everyone else looks down at their phones or stares out the window. They’re nowhere near as rambunctious now as they were on their way here. He gets it, really, he does. Richie wallowed in his own defeat for a little while, but other people being sad? No. Fuck this noise.

Without thinking twice about it, Richie grabs his phone and opens snapchat up. Pointing it at another player, he calls, “Hey, Matt! Over here!”

As predicted, Matt turns around catches sight of Richie with his phone. He smiles and says, “Oi, Tozier, the fuck?”

Richie gracelessly jumps from one bus seat to the other until he’s sitting in front of Matt. He presses record and asks, “So, Matt, how does it feel to peg the ball and have it peg back?”

Mat barks out a laugh, scrunching his face up and making several questioning noises at Richie’s voice.

“You know, beat the bases only to have them stand up and beat us right back?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“We got our ass kicked, man,” Richie says matter-of-fact as if Matt wasn’t there. Matt nods through his smile, small laughs still escaping his mouth at Richie’s confusing choice of words. Richie decides instead of letting him answer he’s got to keep it going, falling into some easy voice that he doesn’t even have a name for. “Man, we sure walked on that field and walked right back off it, didn’t we? Gone down swinging with all our might, much like our parents did before us. I’ll tell you what, me boy. I sure as hell feel great about it! I feel tip top on top of the tip of the world! There’s no other group of guys I’d rather wipe the mud off my face with, yeah? Ah say, I tell ya, ah say!”

By the time he’s done, he’s standing on the seat and waving his arms around in a thousand different directions to punctuate his words. His phone camera has since fallen to the wayside. Most of the boys are laughing along with Matt, watching Richie parade himself around the bus. Several times, he jumps into someone’s seat and bothers them, asks them questions in some kind of weird radio announcer voice. It’s like a mock interview, but the questions are bat shit crazy.

“Tell me, Charlie. If you had to pick anyone on this team to help you take a shit in the men’s room, who would it be?”

“Rudy, would you say that evil forces in the sky are the number one reason we didn’t win today?”

“I’ve been told to swing batter swing, but what if you got up to the plate and I told you to ‘sing, batter, sing,’ Jake?”

Everyone cracks up and Coach Arnold surprisingly lets Richie carry on for the rest of the ride home. It’s easy for Richie to be this way. Maybe it’s even cathartic. There’s something so natural in the way he feels when everyone around him is happy and laughing. It feeds into the very nature of his being, makes it so he wants more and more and more. If there’s any kind of good addiction, it’s probably the kind where you’re addicted to making other people happy. When you’re addicted to that, no one gets hurt. Richie can’t imagine a world where he’s not doing this. He can’t live in a world where he’s not making others happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, with a whole new chapter! Are things getting interesting yet? Who knows! Not me! (Just kidding, I totally know). Have some of Richie's very first baseball game. I went to a major league game the other day because I genuinely love this sport and I was thinking about reddie the whole time. This is who I am as a person. This is as good as it gets, guys. 
> 
> Huge thank you to McKenna and her amazing beta skills. I wasn't feeling so good about this chapter and then she swooped in as an amazing hype woman and gave me the inspiration and encouragement I needed to edit and post this bad boy. 
> 
> I'm sorry if there's too much baseball jargon in here. If there is, please let me know and I'll try to make it better in the coming chapters. I want this to be fun and clear bc I know a lot of you don't care about baseball at all lmao and that's fine! Equal opportunity gay sports highschool au fic. Right? Right. 
> 
> As always, come chat with me at reddie-for-anything@tumblr.com


	5. Hey Batter Batter, Hey Batter - Swing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a real fucking ball buster of a game, but Richie doesn’t lose the drive in his step for one second. Yeah, they’re losing but he knows they can win. He fucking knows it. If they could just break through the Tigers’ air tight infield then they can even this score out. It’s all Richie can think about right now. He’s got his toes dug into the soil of his post in right field and he’s watching the way their pitcher has small, silent conversations with the catcher. He doesn’t know what the fuck they’re saying, but he knows they’re talking through those tiny hand motions and small nods. It’s so fucking quiet out here Richie can hear himself breath. Everyone’s got their eye on the same thing: that fucking baseball.

Somewhere between the start of the season and now, Richie discovers that black is a good color on him. Part of him already knew this, half of his wardrobe at home is made up of loose-fitting black T-Shirts with band names scrawled across the shoulders and chest. This is a new kind of black, though. This is the kind of black that hugs his shoulders and chest. This black tucks into tan pants that are snug around his ass and upper calves, giving way to high black socks. This black shows his body off more than any other black before it. 

Which is precisely one of the reasons Richie likes home games better than away games. He’ll never say it out loud, not in a million billion years, but he loves the way it makes him look. The first time he tried it on he stood in front of his mirror for maybe twenty minutes. Just turning from side to side to look at himself. He’s never considered himself attractive before but there’s something to be said about these stupid uniforms. They can make even the most gangly, lanky pieces of shit look semi-hot and, hey, Richie’ll take what he can get. 

Another pro to home games? His people can actually come to them. Maggie and Went promise to be at every home game for the entirety of the season and, so far, they’ve kept this promise. Stan and Bev give loose promises, one based around tutoring schedules and play practice. Richie can’t hold it against them – he kind of gets it now. They’re working towards something, throwing themselves into something that matters other than friends and fucking around. Which is… weird to say the least. 

The locker room is alive with noise, guys buzzing on about the team they’re facing today and the stats they hold. They’ve gotten better, much better since their six to one loss two weeks ago. They even managed to nab a win at their third game. Granted, that team sucked worse than they do but it was a huge morale boost for the boys. Richie stood on top of bus seats and sang  _ We Are the Champions  _ at the top of his lungs. He got maybe halfway through the song before he got a stern look from the bus driver and dropped back down to his seat. Killjoy. 

He can’t help the excitement that is coursing through him. Everyone has bright eyes and hungry smiles and, admittedly, great asses in their baseball pants. He says as much, playfully whistling as Charlie walks by. Charlie, ever the sweetheart, tells Richie to suck it and flips him off with a smile of his face. It’s endearing. Charlie hardly says two words during practice or games but Richie knows he has this entire personality just simmering beneath the surface. A picture paints a thousand words and Charlies facial expressions say a thousand more. For instance, right now he’s telling Richie to hurry up and get out on the field. Richie, in turn, replies, “yeah, yeah, I’m coming. It’s not my fault I look so hot in this get-up.”

Charlie rolls his eyes and turns to leave, supply bag slung over his shoulders.  _ We have a game to play, Richard,  _ is evident in his posture. 

_ Yes, yes, we do,  _ is what Richie tries to say through a nod. He has no clue if he succeeds or not but he falls into step beside Charlie anyway. 

They walk toward the fields together in silence. The only sound that passes between the two of them is the scuffing noises Richie’s slides make against the gravel. He doesn’t mind, though. There’s something quiet and contemplative about Charlie that he likes to be surrounded by every now and then. It isn’t his normal, all-consuming and dreadful silence. Instead, its inviting and calm, which Richie is not at all used to but is something he’s found he doesn’t hate. 

They pass the practice field on their way over, the varsity boys cheering them on as they make their way to their game. The game schedules don’t always align, so there have already been a few times where the JV team has watched the varsity team play. It’s never been the other way around, though, and Richie finds himself dreading the end of their practice. He already knows about his friends and family being there, but there’s something anxiety provoking in the idea of having the superior team watch them play. There is nothing varsity can learn from him, only things to criticize. 

The game field itself isn’t far off. Richie can still see the other field from his seat in the dugout and he wonders if they’ll be watching the entire time, or if they’ll come closer to the end of practice. The game doesn’t start until around four and the opposing team hasn’t even arrived yet, but Richie can’t stop the anticipatory anxiety that creeps into his system. Who’s going to see him fuck up? When? How closely will they be watching? How closely will they laugh?

He shakes his head a few times, wild curls bounding in every which direction, and it grounds him. It shakes him out of his own thoughts and into the sand of the field. His teammates are surrounding him; they’re pulling their cleats on and drinking water and just shooting the shit and Richie wants so much to be inside of that routine comfort so he just steps into it. 

He doesn’t bud into any of the conversations, none of them sound interesting, so he just starts to whistle and tap his foot while he cleats up. At first, he’s just whistling random notes until it falls into something he knows – like the dreidel song he learned how to sing just to piss Stan off. Soon, though, a familiar tune starts to laser itself into his brain and he’s changed the key to match it and without so much as noticing he switches from whistling to humming. And then from humming to singing under his breath. 

“We go together. Better than birds of feather, you and me” comes out softly. He’s digging through his duffle back for his mitt and prescription sunglasses. His scrunchie stands out in sharp contrast to the black sleeve of his undershirt and he smiles, successfully pulling out the desired items. “We change the weather, yeah. I'm feeling heat in December when you're 'round me.”

He whistles the same notes over again before moving into the pre-chorus. At this point, several of his team members have given him amused smiles as he grooves around his little spot. A few of the boys are on the field throwing a ball around and Richie knows he’s got to get out there for their warm up so he quickly throws his hair up, “I've been dancin' on top of cars and stumblin' out of bars I follow you through the dark, can't get enough.” 

“Sing it, Tozier!” one of the boys hollers and Richie’s head snaps in the direction of the field. 

This is when he really decides to lean into it. He comes around the fencing, holding onto a pole and letting his body swing around quickly while he sings significantly louder than before, “You're the medicine and the pain, the tattoo inside my brain. And, baby, you know it's obvious.”

He pauses for a second, mitt in hand and a completely serious look on his face. The entire team goes silent, staring at him and waiting for whatever bat shit thing he’s going to do next. He considers stalling for a little longer, but he knows that sometimes the right moment can pass you by unintentionally, so before he even realizes it he’s belting at the top of his lungs, “I'm a sucker for you. You say the word and I'll go anywhere blindly.” He rounds on the first teammate he can get his hands on, clutching the collar of his uniform and practically yelling in his face. “I'm a sucker for you, yeah. Any road you take, you know that you'll find me.”

He shimmies his hips a little bit and the boy in front of him smacks his hands away, giggling in the process. Richie pays him no mind and moves on to his next victim. By this point, any of the boys who were lined up on the field have scattered, so Richie can’t just go down the line like he intended to. Luckily for him, number ten is just close enough. He drops to his knees and slowly waddles over to him, “I'm a sucker for all the subliminal things no one knows about you.” Ten backs away, laughing like a madman at the facial expressions that accompany Richie’s singing and batting at Richie with his own mitt. Richie follows, knees still digging into the wet, cold earth as he continues to sing. “And you're makin' the typical me break my typical rules.” 

Suddenly, he stands up and looks around. Number seven is doubled over in laughter a few feet away so Richie cha cha’s real smooth over to him before getting right in his face and singing, “It's true, I'm a sucker for  _ you _ .” He taps the end of Seven’s cap before he spins on his heels and walks away, amused smile on his face.

“You are such a fucking dumbass,” someone calls after him but it’s not in the way he’s used to. There isn’t malice in that voice, but pure unadulterated amusement. Richie revels in it, feeling something heat up inside of him as he plucks a baseball out of the bucket positioned at home plate. 

He resumes his whistling and turns around, finding Jake waiting for him in the outfield. He’s got a look on his face that  _ screams  _ amusement. Richie just grins back and throws the ball to him. Jake catches it easily and they both warm up their arms together until their coach pulls up to the field. Two boys jog over and help him unload the water cooler from the back and then their running their two warm up laps around the field. 

It’s amazing, Richie thinks to himself, how just a couple of weeks ago he couldn’t run these laps without wheezing and gasping for air and now he’s doing it no problem. Sure, he still gets a little winded but it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be. Bev would say it has something to do with daily application. Stan would chalk it up to how much less Richie’s been smoking. Richie himself just says it’s neat. It’s more of a hey look what I can do now thing for him. Something to show his progress over the past few weeks. Hell, if he can job two laps without falling over and dying, what will he be able to do at the end of the season, or maybe even the end of next year? Who fucking knows, but Richie is slightly eager to find out. 

By the time their done stretching out and warming up for real, the other team’s bus pulls up to the parking lot. Orange and white uniforms file off one by one carrying their own bats and balls and water coolers. Richie watches them as they file into their dugout and begin to set up. He doesn’t know anything about them but he’s overheard some of his teammates say they’re pretty decent. Not, like, too good but around Derry’s level of good. It’s sparked some drive in the Derry boys and there’s talk of it being a good game. 

Richie can only hope it’s a good game. Everyone’s doing better all-around and morale is high, all it comes down to now is skill level and determination. 

Because it’s a home game, the Tigers are up first. Richie and the other eight of them take the field, automatically doing their warm up drills. The infield throws in a star formation, the pitcher and catcher do their thing, and the outfield throws pop ups and grounders to each other to field and throw back. Richie, Jake, and a boy named Tom take their positions in left, center, and right field respectively. It’s easy to fall into this routine, easy to get settled in the cold grass of right field. Richie feels comfort out here and the thrumming in his veins from earlier begins to settle. If he looks behind him, he knows he’ll be able to see his friends. They’d promise him they’d come and Richie thinks he saw them roll up with his parents not too long ago. He’s been trying to keep himself from looking, though. Desperate to not get too distracted by the thrill of his own mini cheerleaders lined up along the fence. 

“T Dawg, those are your friends, right?” Jake calls out to him, throwing a high ball and watching as Richie gets himself underneath it. 

Once the ball is in his glove, Richie throws a grounder to Tom and glances behind him. Sure enough, Bev and Stan are seated on the home team side. Once they make eye contact, Bev lights up and waves at him. Stan shoots him a quiet smile and Richie returns one to both of them before turning back around. “Sure are. All two and a half ounces of them!”

“They look so fucking chill,” Jake says back. He’s got a smile on his face as he looks over Richie’s shoulders at them. “I always see you guys together.”

“Yeah, they are,” Richie says. It’s soft and mostly to himself but Jake seems to hear him anyway, so Richie dives into a botched up British accent, really leaning into it until Jake gives him a full on belly laugh. “I love ‘em wit me entire heart!” He even puts his hand over his heart and twirls for extra dramatic effect. It does the trick and Jake drops the ball that Tom throws to him. It’s okay, though, because Tom laughs along with him. Him and Richie don’t really talk much, but Richie manages to get a small chuckle out of him every now and again. 

After he recovers, a wicked look passes over Jakes face before he runs over to the fence. Richie doesn’t have time to stop him, he just watches helplessly as Jake jumps on it and waves at them, right in their face, “Heya, I’m Jake!” he chirps.

Bev and Stan look bewildered but smile back. They know who Jake is from the sheer amount of times Richie has talked about him and the rest of the team. It’s almost embarrassing, really. There’s no way in hell he’d live it down if the others knew he talked about them. Genuine human emotion? Fuck that garbage. This is baseball, there’s no room for genuine human emotion in here. This is sports time! Manly, manly sports! Augh! No room for softy emotional bullshit!

Yeah, honestly Richie isn’t even fooling himself with that one. 

Richie watches on as Jake points backwards toward him, “That one’s yours, yeah?”  

“Mhmm,” Bev hums. She gives Jake a thorough once over and sends him a wicked wink. It’s one of those signature Beverly Looks that just spells out trouble. Richie can’t see Jake's face but he imagines a similar look on his face. Stan doesn’t say anything back, at least nothing that Richie can hear from his spot in right field. He only sees Stan look forward with a flat face, devoid of emotion to the human eye. 

“He’s mine too, but after hours you know?” Jake says. He shimmies his shoulders for extra effects, which causes Bev to absolutely dissolve into giggles. Richie just groans, throwing his head back and running his ungloved hand over his cap. 

“Is that so?” Stan says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Jake grins and winks back and Richie knows it’s all gone to shit from there. Richie knows that he’s never going to hear the end of it. Not from Jake and sure as hell not from Bev and Stan. 

Hs about to step in, pry the three of them apart with his cold bare hands when the whistle blows signifying the start of the inning. Jake waves a quick goodbye and crosses the outfield to his post in left field. The pitcher throws one final practice pitch down the center of the field and then, suddenly, the game has begun. 

Richie spends the entirety of the first inning on the tips of his toes. Literally. He stands there; glove positioned by his stomach, free hand hovering right next to it with torso bent slightly forward, his knees bent, and his entire weight shifting on the balls of his feet. If he stands like this, when the ball comes his way he’ll be able to run almost immediately. And even though his entire team is standing the same way, Bev wolf whistles him the first time he does it and screams, “nice ass, Richie!” He can hear Stan snort once when Bev hollers and one again, even louder, when she apologizes to Maggie.  

Richie has grown to love his post in the outfield. Sure, it might not be the most active place in the outfield but it’s his spot. He earned it, in some weird kickflip three sixty ass backwards kind of way. Somehow, he managed to both care and not care enough to land himself a place on the team, and in turn, this spot. He’s got every dip and bump in the ground memorized. He knows where the little patch of dandelions is going to grow in the spring, he knows where to step and not to step to avoid twisting his ankle. He knows that if a ground ball comes too close to the foul line, it’ll hit a small knob in the ground and bounce up. This is  _ his  _ spot. His little home in the grass. 

The ball only comes to him twice, and only one of those two times is during an actual play where he scoops it up and barrels it to the second baseman. The other time Richie just lobs it to first base, the runner already having gotten reached his goal. 

Otherwise, he’s incredibly proud of how quickly his team turns the inning over. Three runners managed to get on base, one runner scored, but the inning was turned in five players. The Cardinals managed to grab three swift outs one after the other and morale continues to be high when Richie jogs back into the dugout. He has some time before he’s up to bat, so much time that he might not even go before the second inning so he takes his seat on the bench and shakes his hair out. The batter and batter on deck grab helmets and bats and jog out to the grass and Richie watches as they time their swings with the pitchers practice throws. 

Despite games becoming normal and routine, there’s still a level of excitement that floods Richie’s system. This isn’t the kind of excitement that he feels when it’s Christmas morning and he knows he’s got a sick new gift under the tree, or the kind that happens when he knows he has a concert coming up. This excitement brings about a laser focus that Richie has never felt in his entire life. His ability to multitask lets him shoot the shit with the other guys, but he always has his eye on the field. He always knows what’s going on; who’s up to bat, who’s on base, how many outs there are. He manages to keep track of all the important details through the scattered mess of his brain. 

The game both crawls forward and speeds by for Richie. He doesn’t understand exactly how it does this, but it does. When the ball is live, all he can really feel and see is the game. He darts in whatever direction he’s supposed to, he swings the bat when the ball comes, and he calls out to his teammates when he’s supposed to. 

The first batter makes it all the way to second base. The second batter strikes out after two fouls and a ball. The third batter pushes the first batter to third base but has a force out at first. The fourth batter hits a pop fly all the way to center field, which is snagged and turns the inning over completely. Richie tags his hand from his spot in the batter's’ circle as he jogs back in, murmuring good job as they both turn into the dugout for their mitts and caps. 

The game goes on like that for a while. The other team scores a run, then the Cardinals take two runs home back to back and manage to hold a tied game for two innings. Then the Tigers bring in two runners with a home run and the score stays at four to two until the end of the sixth inning.

It’s a real fucking ball buster of a game, but Richie doesn’t lose the drive in his step for one second. Yeah, they’re losing but he knows they can win. He fucking knows it. If they could just break through the Tigers’ air tight infield then they can even this score out. It’s all Richie can think about right now. He’s got his toes dug into the soil of his post in right field and he’s watching the way their pitcher has small, silent conversations with the catcher. He doesn’t know what the fuck they’re saying, but he knows they’re talking through those tiny hand motions and small nods. It’s so fucking quiet out here Richie can hear himself breath. Everyone’s got their eye on the same thing: that fucking baseball. 

Fascinating shit. Really. 

The pitcher rears his hand back and throws right through the strike zone and the batter cracks it. The sound of a leather hide on wood echoes through the field and the bunch of them are suddenly alive. They swiftly make the change from plastic figurines posted in their spots to real life people running at full speed. The Tigers are screaming, losing their shit to tell their batter to run, run, run! The Cardinals are all taking off in their required directions. The catcher comes up the right baseline to back up the first baseman, the center fielder sprints to the back of right field behind Richie, and Richie? Richie doesn’t fucking move. 

He can’t move, not really. There’s nothing he can do beside keep his eye on that tiny, white sphere. That ball is sailing high and long and right for him and all he can think is  _ don’t fuck this up, Richie. Don’t do it. Don’t fucking do it, man  _ because it’s coming literally right for him. He has to move maybe one or two feet to the left before he’s under it. His glove comes up automatically and he just waits. And waits. And fucking waits. 

He’s standing there so fucking long that the sounds around him begin to bleed out of reality. They sound like some weird, distant hum. He can see the runner still running from his peripherals, and he knows that he’s got Tom standing behind him just in case, but Richie prays and prays and prays that there is no just in case. He’s made this catch a thousand times before, but those were always make-believe. It was always practice – never the real thing. Now, he’s got nine pairs of uniformed eyes watching him and the people he loves the most in the world sitting not even twenty feet away. 

It comes down as slowly as it went up and when it finally, actually, for real does connect with the leather of his glove time and space snap back into a continuum. His hearing is suddenly flooded with cheers from all around and he autopilots the throw back in to their pitcher. From the sidelines, he hears his name being called and turns to find Maggie and Went smiling proudly at him, wrapped in snug little blankets to keep the early spring chill off. Stan and Bev sit next to them and Bev is absolutely losing her shit. She’s blowing little kisses Richie’s way; which Richie makes sure to grab and pocket for later before blowing one back. Stan has a toothy grin on his face and Richie returns that with just as much enthusiasm. 

It feels amazing to catch an out like that, and to be the one to turn the inning. He’s slowly in his jog back to the dugout and he’s joined by no other than Jake the man himself, who at this point he’s expecting to practically jump on his shoulders. Jake is practically screaming in his ear about  _ dude, what an amazing catch! Did you see yourself out there? Fucking hell, man _ . Richie won’t complain about it. It only feeds his ego and makes him stronger, which he tells Jake. 

The two of them fall onto the bench, Richie grabbing a water bottle for them to share and tossing his glove into his duffle bag. Jake takes the water appreciatively and watches as their team gets ready to bat. The two of them went last inning: Richie making it all the way to second base and Jake striking out on two fouls and a wayward swing. 

Oh well. Such is baseball. 

When he’s done with the water, Jake leans down and rifles through his bag. He pulls out some peanuts after a second and cracks a few open, handing the rest to Richie. 

“Nothing like a couple of good nuts to keep you nice and satisfied,” Richie teases and Jake giggles – full on fucking giggles – around his mouthful. He smacks Richie’s knee and smiles over at him. 

Richie fucking likes Jake. Not in the way he’s used to liking other boys, either. He likes Jake the way he likes Stan and Bev. It honestly catches him off guard the first time he admits it to himself. Richie Tozier is not one for making friends outside of the little home he’s built for himself, but Jake doesn’t seem like he cares much for walls. Others might spent a few months slowly chipping away at the barriers Richie’s built for himself. Jake? He Kool-Aid Maned that shit. 

“So, Dick,” Jake starts. His voice is blasé in the way that definitely means to be nonchalant but is definitely, one hundred percent chalant. “Is Bev your girlfriend?”

Richie chokes on his mouthful of peanuts as gracefully and beautifully as one does when they’re caught completely off fucking guard. 

“No way, Joe-say,” Richie says is what turns out to be an incredibly offensive accent. Jake gives him a solid  _ look  _ before he pops another peanut into his mouth. 

“You two always seem so close,” Jake remarks and, yeah, they are close but that doesn’t mean they’re dating. Bev is one of Richie’s absolute favorite people in the world. He’s certain that he’d either kill or get killed for her without hesitation in the way that all seventeen-year-olds do. Bev is his go-to girl. Maybe he loved her once upon a time, maybe he could love her in another life, but that’s gone with the wind. 

Richie could tell him that, but he settles for a hum and an agreement, instead, saying, “I love her, just not like that.”

“Oh, well, uh,” Jake starts and stops, he looks like he’s trying to figure out how to say whatever it is he wants to say. His eyes cast downward and flit back and forth as he goes through his options before he says, “are you and Stan?” He finishes his sentence with some weird hand motion and Richie just dissolves into another laughing spell. He bends over, grasping for breath, full belly laughs pouring out of him. 

He doesn’t even get a chance to reply, his hacking and gasping for air around mouthfuls of laughter evident enough, apparently. Because Jake turns very, very subtle shade of red and starts to defend himself. Richie cuts him off with absolutely zero regard for whatever the other boy is trying to say. “God,  _ no _ ! Stan the man is my brother!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” Jake says, nervously laughing and holding his hands up in defeat. He’s got a timid look on his face that tells Richie he’s worried, like maybe he offended him or something. “It’s just – I know you’re – I mean. You’re part gay, right?” Richie just waves him off with a grin. 

“No need to worry, Jakey my boy. Stan and I have known each other since we were wee little lads. He’s my left-hand man, my best friend. I love him to bits and pieces, just  _ not  _ like that.” He emphasizes the ‘not’ with Stan just to really drive that point home. He makes sure to tack on a gentle, “and I’m  _ bisexual _ , not part gay,” at the end just for clarification. 

Jake still looks mortified but Richie just knocks their shoulders together and steals another peanut.  _ Compensation for emotional trauma _ , he jokes and Richie notices that the more he doesn’t make a big deal, the more Jake seems to ease out of his awkwardness – no longer looking like he might accidentally press the Big Red Button in the oval office. As if he’s  _ anywhere  _ near that level of catastrophe. 

Richie likes his friendship with Jake. He’s never had a bro friend before. No one who wears a backwards cap and says  _ dude  _ and  _ bro  _ has ever given Richie so much as a second look in the hallway. But Jake isn’t like that. None of these guys are, really. It’s nice. 

Who the fuck would have thought that Richie Tozier would have jock friends? What a fucking time to be alive. 

They score one run in the seventh inning. Richie and Jake clutch the rusted chain link fencing of the dugout and scream their heads off as Charlie, fucking  _ Charlie _ , comes running home with a bat shit crazy grin on his face. He’s greeted by a thousand shoulder taps and bro hugs when he rounds the fence inside. 

The Tigers, however, seem to be out for a vengeance because when the Cardinals take one step forward, the Tigers take three. In the top of the eighth, the Tigers manage to squeak in three fucking runs, making the score seven to three. It leaves Richie and his entire team vying for another chance. They’re not out of this thing, not yet. Not if Richie has anything to say about it. 

He doesn’t get to bat in the eighth inning. He waits they circle back through the lineup, cursing under his breath when they’re plucked off one by one. They get so close to scoring, so fucking close, before the inning turns over.

The Tigers hardly have a chance to get on base, Richie and his boys picking them off one after another until their last shot at grabbing runs is gone. They seem pleased, though, like this game is in the bag no matter what. Richie doesn’t think so. Four runs aren’t  _ that  _ much.

By the time Richie steps up to bat there’s a runner on first, a runner on second, and two fucking outs. Ha, ha, no pressure or anything, right?

It’s a familiar scene. Richie brings his bat up to his shoulders, bends his knees, and watches. The pitcher watches him back with stone cold eyes as he winds up his arm. He throws down the center and a little high. 

“Ball!”

Fuck. Richie steps back, breathes in once, and steps back in. They repeat this game, Richie swinging on one and missing, and getting another ball on the follow up. He’s almost frustrated. He wants a good fucking pitch, god damn it. He wants something he can hit. He wants to be back in that stupid batting cage with that stupid pitching machine and get a fucking good pitch. He wants it so bad that when he steps back into the batter’s box, he’s fucking  _ itching _ . Something slices through his veins and makes his blood rush in his ears so loud it’s like he’s on white water rapids. His eyes are laser focused and when that ball comes down the center he fucking  _ swings.  _

_ Crack! _

He doesn’t wait to see where it goes. He has no clue how high or how far or how fast it is – all he knows is that if it were a foul someone would have told him by now. 

Richie silently thanks his weird genetics because his long legs carry him to first base without a problem. He can hear people screaming, people cheering, someone telling him to, “run, Richie, run! Second! Second!” so he does. He rounds first base and pushes forward. The screaming only gets louder, the chaos only intensifies and the only thing Richie can do is keep fucking running. He’s dimly aware of where the ball is, somewhere in the back of center field, so he makes a judgment call and he pushes himself further than ever before. He takes second and passes it, his legs are aching, his lungs are burning, his vision is blurring around the edges but he keeps fucking going. He sees third base and he wants it. Fucking hell, he wants it. 

“Down!” 

Richie doesn’t know who says it, but he listens. He jumps, throws his hands up, tucks his left leg under his ass, and  _ slides _ . The ground is fucking hard and sand flies up in little plooms around him as he connects with the base. He feels someone smack his leg – pretty fucking hard no doubt – before he hears the umpire scream, “safe!”

The crowd goes fucking  _ wild _ . Richie goes fucking wild. He stands up and jumps up and down, losing his shit and taking in all the praise he can get from his team. His coach pumps his fist in the air, Jake’s jumping wildly inside of the dugout, and his friends and standing on the bleachers. Richie has never felt such a fucking  _ rush  _ before. He brought two players in. Two runs! Richie! He did that!

Fucking shit, man. Baseball really is all it’s cracked up to be. 

Stan catches his eye from across the field and gives him a small, but meaningful thumbs up. 

As the field resets, Richie continues to scan the area. He takes in the faces of the crowd and his team, as well as his team. Everyone looks on edge, ready to take on the next challenge as Richie keeps his perch at third base. 

On his scan, Richie notices Eddie along the fence by the bleachers. He’s smiling, practically fucking beaming over at Richie like a proud mother duck and it makes something flip inside of him and he can feel his entire stomach fill with some kind of cold, empty discomfort. It makes his arms tingle and his heart rate speed up, but not in the ways it normally does when he’s playing. Right now, its thump, thump, thumping in his ears, loud and all-consuming and unsettling. He wants to shock it still, hook some wires up to it and force it to calm the fuck down because what’s even happening right now? 

He shakes his head a few times and readjusts his batting helmet in a desperate attempt to get his heart to stop pounding. He’s never hit a run like this before and he feels like there is so much pressure now. He made it all the way to third, he  _ has  _ to make it home. He has to at least tie up the score. 

His hands shake at his sides as he watches the next batter step up to the plate. It isn’t long before he swings. The ball comes up the third baseline and Richie stays fucking put. It ends up being a foul, and anxiety begins to bubble up in his chest and ears and eyes. He starts to feel like a livewire out on that field. He’s ticking and ready to run, so when the ball goes live again Richie doesn’t think, he just runs. 

He regrets his decision almost immediately because while the ball comes up the third base line again, it isn’t a foul and he’s picked off. The game ends with him standing between third and home, so fucking close to tying the score. 

He hardly has any time to process the loss before he hears his name from being called from all around him as his team practically closes around him like the anti-parting of the sea. Jake, Charlie, everyone’s got their hands on him as they congratulate him for his hit. Richie takes it all in. If he keeps up this blast of euphoria and validation, maybe the devastation from his out won’t eat him alive. 

Somewhere through the crowd, he manages to spot Eddie crossing the field. He’s still grinning, wrapped head to toe in a hoodie and sweatpants and Richie can’t help it. 

“Eds!” he screams, rounding on Eddie in a heartbeat and managing to get his hands on Eddie’s sides. It’s an impulse decision, driven by nothing more than mischief and chaos, to dig is fingers in the second they make contact. Eddie shrieks in response. Loud, broken giggles tumble from his mouth and his eyes screw up as he attempts to push Richie's arms down. He’s unsuccessful at first, and for a brief moment Richie manages to worm his arms around Eddie's entire body. He lifts him up off the ground and spins, only intensifying Eddie’s screams. 

Eddie's feet reconnect with the grass almost violently and Richie tries to keep the onslaught of surprise tickles going, but Eddie manages to break free with his newfound stability. 

“Richard Wentworth Tozier! Stop fucking tickling me!” His voice is racked with giggles and he has sort of an airy quality about him now. His eyes are bright in the golden sunlight and his body still shakes from relentless laughs. “And that’s not my fucking name, Jesus Christ, some habits never die,” he talks on at the end, quietly and seemingly only for good measure.

The crowd eventually thins out, teammates returning to the dugout to collect their things and clean up. Richie looks around his small group of people and he notices one extra person, someone he’s never seen before. Well, that’s a bold faced lie but it sure as hell is someone he’s never interacted with before. Not that Mike Hanlon is someone he doesn’t want to interact with, but Mike is definitely someone who is miles above Richie’s social status. He’d be caught dead before he ever spoke two words to Richie. 

“Tozier, it’s good to see you man!” He says holding his hand out and forcing Richie into one of those weird side hug high five hand shake things that he is so bad at. His arm is a limp noodle compared to Mike’s football throwing masterpiece and he feels like his body flops against Mike’s when they do the half hug thing. It’s ten out of ten an awkward experience for Richie but Mike pays him no mind. He grins a blinding smile before turning to the rest of the group. “Ms. Marsh, it’s a pleasure,” he says while shaking her hand before turning to Stan. “Stanley, it’s nice to see you outside of class.”

Stan balks at him for a moment, staring at the outstretched hand and just kind of stuttering like a fish, “Uh, hey Mike. Good to see you, too?” Comes out in a voice that definitely does not belong to the typical Stan Uris. He takes Mike’s hand after what feels like an eternity and they do a tight handshake, Stan looking anywhere but Mike and Mike smiling away. It’s fucking weird and Richie makes a mental note to bring it up later. 

Mike stands tall and proud next to Eddie, the two of them radiating that weird high school social status shit like pheromones. Not by choice, probably, because Richie can see that Mike is much more down to Earth than, say, Bill Denbrough is. Richie’s seen the group of them walking the halls together. Eddie, Ben, Mike, and Bill. Bill always looked out of place in there. Richie knows he’s been Eddie’s best friend since they were children, having grown up literally down the street from each other, but he still doesn’t get it. There’s something genuine about Eddie and Bill looks like he doesn’t have a genuine bone in his body - what with that fucking undercut and that stupid line shaved out of his eyebrow. He looks like an asshole and Richie would lay twenty dollars down on that bet. 

They shoot the shit for what feels like forever. Richie watches in awe as his two worlds touch for a brief moment. Jake seems to be hitting it off with Bev and Stan as naturally as breathing air. Mike and Eddie look comfortable. And Richie feels good. He feels okay, basking in the glory of his mistaken sprint for the win. Losing isn’t as bad as people say it has to be. Not when this is the real outcome. 

“Hello, Earth to Richard?” Bev says, waving a hand in front of Richie’s face to snap him back into reality. He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head and levels her with his best  _ what do you want  _ look. “Milkshakes? Me, you, Jake, and Stan?”

Richie looks around for a second and sees that Mike and Eddie have wandered off in the direction of his coach and his parents are long gone. He had no idea he was gone in Richie Land for so fucking long. 

He considers her offer for a second before he looks around the field. It’s nearly empty at this point and he wonders what practicing out here alone would look like. He has a strange urge to run the bases a few times, throw some empty balls at the fence, really put in an extra mile. “Nah, not today, Marsh. Catch me next time, though?”

Bev flips him off and Stan shrugs and then they’re saying goodbye, hugging in an empty diamond. Richie watches the three of them walk off, Jake splitting off to get in his own car and head home, and then it’s just him. 

He takes two steady breaths in and out and turns around on the field. The Spring sun is low in the sky and it casts a golden wave over the grass. Richie basks in it for a second, really takes in the chill of the air and mixed with the distant warmth of the setting sun, before he heads into the dugout to grab his mitt and ball. 

“Whatcha still doing here?” comes from the opposite end and Richie almost shits his pants. Eddie, that fucker, is seated on the far end of the dugout and Richie just fucking stares at him for a moment. The golden sun makes his hair even blonder, it makes his tan skin tanner. 

“Fucking shit, Eds,” Richie places his hand over his heart as he speak, “Give a man a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie says but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He doesn’t look it, either, as he stands up and crosses the concrete. “Seriously, though.”

“Just taking a little bit of me time,” Richie says, holding up his mitt and smiling. 

“Wowee, Richie Tozier is a slut for baseball. Who fucking knew?” Eddie teases and Richie is caught in a full on belly laugh. 

“Eddie K gets off a good one!” He hollers at the top of his lung. 

“Don’t work too hard,” is all he says back and while he still sounds like he’s joking, Richie places something a little more real under the surface. 

“Gotta practice if we’re gonna take home that win next time.”

“I don’t think you need to wear yourself into the dirt. You were really good out there today, Rich,” Eddie says, pausing. He takes one step closer and his eyes catch Richie, all grey and green and brown and gold at the same fucking time and Richie doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything. “Seriously. I’ve never seen you so focused on something before.”

Richie can’t shake the sincerity he hears in Eddie’s voice. The Laugh Machine is turned all the way down and all that’s left is Eddie in his honest truth. Richie opens his mouth once to say something but he can’t. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment by adding a snide comment just for chucks. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want chucks. 

That alone leaves him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what to do with raw honesty, with real emotions, but Eddie just leaves it where it is for Richie to do whatever with. 

“You know you can probably still catch some daylight,” Eddie says. “Text Bev and Stan, they seemed disappointed when they left. Bet you could all use a good shake. Jake, too, maybe?” 

Eddie ends his sentence with a swift wink and Richie just stares at him. This is the first time they’ve been alone and even though they’re surrounded by a wide, open space and a billion blades of grass and grains of sand, probably some bugs, the dugout feels so private. He feels safe on this field. 

A few seconds pass between them and Richie uses them to take all of Eddie in. He’s got a loose pair of sweatpants on and a team hoodie from practice. These are the only times he sees Eddie without his letterman jacket, so his eyes linger on his broad shoulders and lean waist. It’s a startling contrast. Eddie got big. He sure fucking grew up, didn’t he? Richie did, too. Shot up so high that he has to tilt his head down to see Eddie fully. 

Eddie stares back, eyes subtly doing the same thing. Richie wonders what Eddie would say if he invited him along. It’s an impulse decision that Richie, in all of his impulsive glory, can’t control. Eddie would love Bev and Stan. He already loves Jake, so that’s nothing to worry about. They’d all probably laugh so hard they cry, throwing fries back and forth and eating until they explode. Two worlds, coming together. What an idea. 

“Hey, Eds –”

“I gotta go, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” Eddie says. Richie’s voice gets lost in the crosstalk and he doesn’t bother to find it again as Eddie walks away. 

Maybe next time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is likely going to be one of the last really baseball heavy chapters. I'm also lowkey sorry it's so damn long but I love these baseball playing dorks super much and could write endlessly about them. I hope you guys love them, too.


	6. Operation Criminal Flamingo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line goes quiet and Richie just shrugs and clips the walkie in to one of his belt loops. Cool, old-time Jazz rings out over the auditorium and on the stage stands one Beverly Marsh. She’s dressed in a black tank top that’s tucked into a pair of black Derry High sweatpants with red lettering down the left leg. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, coming down and resting over her right shoulder. It does everything for the pale glow of her skin – tanner than Richie himself but not to translucent. She’s a porcelain goddess made for the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: use of slurs

“Crrrcht, come in Birdbrain, come in. Over,  crrrcht .”

_ “You don’t need to make that noise every time, over.” _

“ Crrrcht, yes I do. Over, crrrcht.”

_ “No, you fucking don’t. Also, that’s not the codename we agreed on, you jackass.” _

“Crrrcht, this one is better. Over, crrrcht.”

_ “Richie, I’m going to come over there and slap you. Over.” _

“Okay, okay, calm down Admiral Underpants.”

“ _ Night Owl.” _

“That’s fucking weak.”

_ “You’re fucking weak.” _

“No, I’m fucking your mom.”

_ “Where the fuck are you? I’m coming over there. You better run – fuck baseball, you boutacatch these hands.” _

Richie has to cover his mouth to stop the desperate cackles that threaten to bleed out into the dim lighting. He’s found himself the perfect spot and lets the shadows from the stage lights conceal him. 

Stan has no clue where he is. Likewise, he has no clue where Stan is hiding. They parted ways up in the balcony and they’ve spent the past half hour making their way downstairs and through the auditorium without being noticed. Every now and then Richie would raise the walkie-talkie up to his mouth and annoy the ever-loving shit out of Stan. 

“Crrrcht, Criminal Flamingo has been identified and spotted. Over, crrrcht.”

_ “You’re not allowed to pick anymore codenames.” _

“Oh, come on. You’re telling me you don’t like calling me Big Daddy R?”

_ “Never, in my entire fucking life, have I ever called you that.” _

“Oh, right. That was just your mom last night.”

The line goes quiet and Richie just shrugs and clips the walkie in to one of his belt loops. Cool, old-time Jazz rings out over the auditorium and on the stage stands one Beverly Marsh. She’s dressed in a black tank top that’s tucked into a pair of black Derry High sweatpants with red lettering down the left leg. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, coming down and resting over her right shoulder. It does everything for the pale glow of her skin – tanner than Richie himself but not as translucent. She’s a porcelain goddess made for the stage. 

She sways back and forth to the music, letting the short intro play before she comes in. “I'm feeling fine, filled with emotion stronger than wine. They give me the notion that this strange new feeling is something that you're feeling too.”

God, her voice is honeysuckle smooth and Richie finds himself getting lost in it. Freckles dust her shoulders and face and she doesn’t look washed out under the lights without her stage makeup on. She’s not dancing as she sings, just rocking gently back and forth with her eyes closed. She’s got one hand on her stomach just below her ribs and Richie distantly remembers her telling him about how important diaphragm is for singing. 

_ “Ha ha, Bev. I’m not stupid I know that’s a sex thing.” _

_ “Richie, honey, you are stupider than your GPA leads you to believe you are.” _

Someone yells out to cut the music and then suddenly Bev’s eyes snap open. A tall, slender woman jumps onto the stage and walks up to Bev. She helps adjust posture, does some weird motions with her hands. Richie can’t hear what they’re saying, so he takes the opportunity to move forward, army crawling down the aisle on the right side of the auditorium. 

_ “Richie, where are you? Over.”  _ comes from the walkie but Richie doesn’t bother to answer it. He keeps inch-worming his way down the aisle until he’s reached the set of stairs that go to the side of the stage. From those steps, he can either get onto the stage itself or he can continue down a narrow hall that will take him backstage. 

The closer he gets to his mission, the more on edge he feels. There’s an excitement thrumming just underneath his skin. He knows if Bev turns her head and looks, all of this would be for naught. The entire mission would be thrown and Richie probably would never hear the end of it. Stan, naturally, would get off scot-free because he’s not the one risking his hide out here on the front lines. No, Stan is safe and sound in the shelter of… fuck. Wait. Where actually is Stan? 

He quickly unclips his walkie and brings it up to his lips, “Agent Birdbrains, where are you? Over.”

_ “Stop calling me that, and I literally just asked you. Over.” _

“You did? Over.”

_ “Yes. Over.” _

“You answer first.”

On stage, the music starts up again and Bev begins her slow, jazzy lament about being a showgirl and love and whatever else she’s singing about. A gentle guitar strums over the speakers and effectively drowns out any risk Richie and Stan have of being caught from the sheer volume of their argument alone. 

_ “Fuck you, I asked you first!” _

“Well, I asked you second.”

Stan audibly groans into the receiver and grumbles, “ _ Hallway behind the auditorium.” _

“How the fuck did you get out there? Nevermind, doesn’t matter. I’m making my way backstage, crawling fast, actors pass, and I’m show bound. Do-do-do-do-”

Stan presses on his talk button and the interference causes a loud screeching sound and thank god the music is still playing because it would be game over otherwise. 

Richie lets go of his talk button and the sound cuts off.

“You’re an ass,” Stan says but there is a clear smile coming through the speaker. Richie knows that smile so well he’d be able to pick it out of any speaker, no matter how little it costs at the local Walmart. No sound quality, good or bad, would be able to stop Richie from picking up on Stan’s smile, especially because Stan normally smiled with his voice. You could see it on his face only if you were trained to do so; it only shows up in the form of a slight upturn. 

On the rare occasion, Stan will give a full on belly laugh and his smile will invade his face similar to the way Germany invaded Poland in 1939. His baby blue eyes would light up like a fucking firecracker and his teeth would be bared in utmost joy. Richie knows that face well because he’s usually the one to trigger it. Richie and Bev are the only two people in the world that can get Stan to laugh so hard he worries about pissing his trousers and because of that, the world is a better place. Stan hardly knew how to laugh before he met the two of them. He was wound up so tight everyone was worried he was about two steps and a penny away from blowing a major gasket all over his desk. 

Now, he’s got several deadbolted screws in place to hold that pretty little mop of hair in place and a valve in the back for releasing pressure buildup. 

_ “Does she have them?” _

Richie shifts his gaze back to Bev as the song closes out. Luckily for him, she’s looking nowhere near where Richie is stationed at the bottom of the stairs. Instead, she’s looking at her director as she gives her simple instructions back. Something about breathing, something about projecting, and then simple praise. Bev’s face shifts into something of elation and pride. Richie has always known her to take constructive criticism in stride, using it to better herself every step of the way. There’s a professional glow about her in those respects. Bev is far, far beyond her years. She’s grown in a world that had no sympathy for her and instead of letting it devour her, she spit in its face and rose out of the ashes. Out with the old and in with Beverly Marsh. 

Oh, Bev. You strong, inspiring, talented, shoeless motherfucker. 

“Negative. Over.”

Richie quickly makes his way up the steps and into the backstage area. Stan meets him there and they high five, Stan bringing his hand down to connect with Richie’s upturned one before he grabs hold and spins Stan around in a tight circle. From there, they do a double handed high five and a hip check before Stan leans in and whispers, “So, do we know where they are?” like nothing ever happened. 

It’s something they’ve been doing for years. Ever since they met, really. They’d come up with it together underneath the spiral slide during recess after Richie had stated that real friends had secret handshakes. God, the first time he spun Stan, Stan giggled like a madman. His hair fell in his face and he brought his hands up to cover his eyes and god dammit it was the cutest damn thing Richie had ever seen. It was the moment he knew he wasn’t letting Stan go no matter what. No sir, you’re fucking stuck with Richie Tozier. 

“Dressing room, for sure,” Richie hums and they both turn to look at the door. This, by far, is the riskiest part of their mission. Two teenage boys breaking into the girls dressing room during a late night would be hard to talk their way out of. 

“Are you sure no one else is in there?” Stan asks. His voice is edging on anxious and Richie knows that if there was even an ounce of a chance they would get in trouble for this, Stan would be out. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Richie says. Part of what he’d been doing in the auditorium was keeping an eye on this door and making sure no one goes in or out. From what he can see, Bev is the only girl on crew today. Betty Ripsom, or the infamous Tallulah, wasn’t scheduled to rehearse tonight and there was no reason for anyone else to use the dressing room. Late nights were meant for the main cast, not the ensemble. 

Stan gave him a curt nod in response and Richie just went for it. No sense in waiting around for someone to catch them. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Richie steps off first and goes straight through the dressing room door, no hesitation. He’s not sure what he expects to find in there, but he sure as hell isn’t ready for the blinding lights that are positioned on top long mirrors that line either wall. Right in front of each mirror is a long table that extends from one side of the room to the other, creating almost a walkway framed by mirrors and countertops. As Richie steps in, he looks to the left and sees a thousand copies of himself reflecting back and forth as the mirrors play off of each other. The bright gleam from the vanity lights is almost blinding, almost hypnotizing and he finds himself stuck in a never ending vortex of Richies and lights and Richies and lights until Stan walks directly into his back. 

“Fuck – why’d you stop?” He whisper-shouts right into Richie’s ear and it’s enough to shake him out of the short trance he’d been put under. How the fuck does Bev come in here every single day without being sucked into another dimension of lights and sights and no, just no. Fuck that noise. 

“Jesus, personal space Stan. Ever heard of it?”

“Richie you wouldn't know personal space if it nestled itself in your ass,” Stan says, draping himself over Richie’s shoulders and pressing himself against Richie’s back. Richie feels Stan hook his arms together and he takes the chance to bend over and lift with his legs, effectively hoisting Stan up into the air. 

Stan makes a kind of strangled noise at the sudden change in stability and his arms go rigid around Richie’s shoulders. He doesn’t yell, though. Not when the stakes are so high. 

“Come on now, Staniel my boy. We have shoes to find.”

Bev’s show bag seems to be the only thing in the dressing room, so finding her dance shoes is easier than they anticipated. They both planned for spending maybe ten minutes going through various bags but they’re in and out in what feels like seconds. 

Stan insists on carrying them. Frankly, he doesn’t trust Richie to not lose one of the two in transit. Richie is only mildly offended at this because, deep down, Stan is probably fucking right. 

They make their way into the back hallways and around the front of the auditorium before going inside and up to the balcony. Richie is surprised that no one catches them in their travels because he’s sure that they’re not doing a good job at concealing echoing giggles. Thank god it’s a late night practice and the school is practically deserted. Late night rehearsals kick ass. 

“I want to do it.” Richie almost can’t hide his indignance when Stan gets his cellphone out. He feels like a child, but there is something welling up inside of him that he can’t help, a need for control. It’s a joke, mostly, but he can’t help it either. 

“No fucking way, you get to do everything.”

“This was my idea!” His voice comes out in a whine. It’s tempting to stomp his foot but the look Stan gives him shuts that idea down really quickly. 

“And could you have done it without me?”

“Yes, but doing it with you is so much better.” They both pause for a moment, the ultimate stare-down happening in the darkness of the upper balcony. “What if I send it, but you hold them?”

Stan doesn’t answer, but he does smile. Fucking score. 

Stan lies down on his side and holds both of the shoes up. The snapchat Richie sends to Bev reads as follows:  _ We have a hostage. Give us what we want and no one gets hurt. _

Its less than five minutes before her retaliating threat comes through. Richie knows she’s good for her word, but they send another snapchat anyway. This time, Stan is dangling one of the shoes over the balcony edge. Realistically, the shoe would take little damage from the fall but Bev seems to get the hint because a few seconds after she opens it she asks what they want from her. 

What do they want? It’s simple really. What does any teenage boy want during the spring semester of their junior year? Freedom, maybe. Someone to do their homework for the next few months so they can sit back and relax. Or maybe they want endless favors. How amazing would it be for them to have someone do their bidding for them? God, the possibilities are endless. 

They settle for two candy bars from the vending machine downstairs. 

She makes them wait by the machine for almost ten minutes before she finally rounds the corner, socks gliding gently on the tile floor. She looks mad, but there’s also an amused glint in her eye, like she’s impressed they got this far. 

“I cannot believe you fuckers,” is all she says as she puts a dollar into the machine. Stan’s Payday bar comes out first, which he readily grabs from the slot in the machine. Richie can’t help the _ 'Stan sure loves his nuts'  _ comment that comes out. Stan hands the left shoe to Bev as she puts another dollar in the machine. A Reece’s pack falls out next, which Richie receives in exchange for the right shoe. 

The second the shoes are in her hands she rears back and smacks Richie hard on the shoulder. He makes a startled, pained noise and then she goes for Stan, who spends two seconds narrowly dodging her swings before she clips him on the back of the head. “I swear to god you boys are going to be the death of me.”

“You love us!” Comes out practically in unison as she turns around and stalks back to the auditorium. 

The sweet taste of free vending machine candy is just enough to dull the ache in Richie’s arm. She’s got one hell of a swing. If she wasn’t so fucking busy all the time he’d tell her to go for the softball team. 

They don’t have much of a reason to stay inside the school after their mission is complete, so they retire to good old Betsy waiting for them out in the front parking lot. 

It might be getting warm during the day, but with the sun set well beneath the horizon the Derry temperature drops low enough to call for two jackets, gloves, a scarf, and whatever else you can get your hands on. If you’re local to Derry, it doesn’t bother you too much. You know to stay out of the cold as much as you can. Most people are just jumping from their car to their next indoor destination, anyway, so fuck double-coats. No, Richie’s fleece lined bomber is more than enough to do the trick. His long hair keeps his ears warm and his hands are always tucked into his pockets unless he’s got a lit cherry in his mouth. It’s still cold though, and with the window of his truck rolled halfway down both Richie and Stan feel the frigid nighttime breeze when it comes through. 

For that very reason, Richie has the heat cranked all the way up. 

Stan sits in his passenger seat, staring out of the windshield into the dim parking lot. They’re one of the few cars left and they take turns guessing which beater belongs to which cast member or director. It’s a fun game for a while, the two of them taking subtle jabs at their peers and each other while Richie sucks on the end of a Winston, but it’s easy to run out of cars in an empty lot. 

Richie’s had more than enough time to mull over Stan’s behavior at his last game. It’s been days and he’s impressed with his own level of self-restraint in not bringing it up but good things can only last for so long. “So, Mike Hanlon, huh?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Stan doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t flinch or shy away from it or turn his head in any direction. He just keeps on staring out into the darkness while Richie gives him a subtle once over out of the corner of his eye.  

“Oh, don’t bullshit me. I’m the king of bullshit,” Richie says. It comes out in a soft, almost song-like voice as he reaches over to gently push at Stan. There’s give in the push and Stan’s body goes gently to the right and then settles back the same as it was. He blinks once and shrugs, finally turning to look at Richie. 

“I’m not bullshitting you.”

“I can read you like a book on birds in the pacific northwest.”

“You don’t know shit about birds or the pacific northwest.”

“No, I don’t. But I know you and that’s good enough.”

There’s something to be said about the way Stan goes quiet. Richie can see a distant look in his eyes. He’s picking the skin around his fingernails and Richie watches as he flicks a small piece of dead skin onto the floor of Richie’s truck. It’s a nasty habit but it’s something Stan has never been able to break. Richie’s not sure if he’s tried, really. When he absentmindedly brings one up to his teeth Richie whispers, “Stan, we’re best friends. You can tell me anything.”

“You have a big mouth,” Stan shoots right back but Richie knows it’s just an excuse. Yeah, Richie has a big fucking mouth but only with stuff that isn’t important; like the answers to Friday’s calculus test or how Bowers has the worst possible haircut for the shape of his head. This? This is important. This is the kind of conversation that Richie would carry all the way to his grave if Stan asked him to. There isn’t a world that exists where this would leave the safety and comfort of good old Betsy. 

Stan starts working double time on his thumb and a small drop of blood begins to bead around the nail. This must really be getting to him for him to be able to find that much wrong on his perfectly manicured hands. If you pick hard enough, scrape at the skin with enough force, something is always bound to flake off. 

“You really like him, don’t you? Haven’t seen you get this flustered since,” Richie starts but he quickly trails off. When was the last time Stan’s gotten this worked up? Richie can’t remember, but he knows it’s never been over some random person they barely even know. Hell, Stan has hardly had a real relationship in the entirety of their high school career. None of them had. “Well, never over some dude. Seen you get worked up before but not like this.”

Before, when they were younger, Stan used to hole himself up real good. It started off slow, sometime around eighth grade when he would make excuses to not hang with Richie and Bev after school. He would say he had too much homework but it was always bullshit. They were all in the same classes anyway. Then, it was a religion thing. His dad always needed him in the synagogue, his mom needed help preparing for Shabbat, there was some kind of family holiday coming up. Again, most of it was bullshit. In all the years he’d come to know Stan, his religion was never this intrusive into his social life. Yeah, it was all important but Mr. and Mrs. Uris never pulled him from after school hangouts before. 

It got really bad. Stan stopped texting them back, started skipping class, started snapping at them when they confronted him about it. It was like someone filled a powder keg with gasoline and one wrong step was the match that sparked the explosion. He became difficult to be around - if he even showed up, that is - to the point where Richie was almost questioning their entire friendship. 

Richie remembers the day it all came to a head clear in his mind. He’ll never forget marching up to Stan on the sidewalk, catching him by the elbow and spinning him around. He had asked, no demanded, Stan tell both him and Bev what his fucking problem was. They were friends, after all. They both deserved that much. Things turned from awkward to tense in a matter of seconds and the two of them nearly bit each other’s heads off in a struggle for social dominance. Stan was quick, cool, and precise while Richie was every emotion under the sun packed tightly into a bottle rocket that was lit and counting down. 

_ I’m just doing you guys a favor because you’ll hate me no matter what! You’ll thank me later _ , Stan had all but screamed at them. His eyes were filling with tears faster than he could wipe them away and that’s when all hell really broke loose. Stan never cried. Ever. He just bottled it up and up and up until the dams finally broke loose and he let out a full body sob and screamed,  _ I’m gay! There! Are you happy now? Are you fucking happy? _

Richie laughed in his fucking face.  _ You think I’d hate you because you’re a fucking fairy? Jesus Christ, Stan, have you met me? I’m twice the man and three times the fairy you’ll ever be! _

Bev hit him pretty hard on the back of the head for that one, but it was worth it to see Stan’s shoulder shake with something other than tears. 

“He’s not just some dude,” Stan whispers. He’s so quiet Richie almost doesn’t hear it over the blast of the heat. He’s thankful he does, because it pulls him out of the memory and into this moment. 

“No, he isn’t,” Richie says. He thinks about making a joke but doesn’t. Just sucks on his cigarette and ashes it out of the open window. 

It goes quiet again before Stan says, “it’s freezing in here,” at full volume. 

Richie takes a long drag of his Winston and flicks it out of the window before grabbing hold of the crank and rolling it up. Stan is giving them both an out of this conversation, but Richie refuses to take it. There’s no way in hell he’s letting Stan hole himself up again. “Tell me about him.”

“There’s nothing to tell. He hardly knows I exist.” God, talking to him is like pulling teeth. Stan’s arms are now crossed and he’s staring out of the passenger window towards the school as if he’s waiting to see Bev come down the stairs and climb into the truck. Tough tits, Stan, she’s still got another ten minutes  _ minimum _ . 

“Oh, I fucking beg to differ.”

“Then beg.”

“Did you see the way he looked at you? ‘It’s nice to see you outside of class, Stan’ god it was disgusting.” Richie chuckles and Stan does not look amused. He shoots Richie a glare from his seat but, hey, he got Stan to look over at him so it’s a win in Richie’s book. He tacks on “in the cutest ways,” for good measure. It doesn’t do much, but the edges around Stan’s eyes soften with what could be forgiveness. Or maybe exhaustion. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stan says and there is a tired lilt to his voice. Definitely exhaustion. 

The clock on the dashboard reads 8:04pm. 

“He wants to see you outside of class more,” Richie hums. He shimmies his shoulders and waggles his eyebrows for extra effect. A little something-something on top to make Stan the Man a little more at ease. It doesn’t have the infectious giggle effect Richie was going for but the cabin of the truck suddenly seems a little lighter. 

“No, he doesn’t. He was just being nice.”

“He didn’t say that to Miss Marsh,” Richie sings again. 

It’s a stark contrast to Stan’s dead flat tone when he says, “he doesn’t have class with her.”

“Oh, Stan,” Richie laughs and he can’t help it. There’s always going to be that distinct need to tease just below the surface and with the tension bleeding out through the cracks in the doors, Richie feels comfortable saying, “you’ve got it bad.”

Stan sighs and leans the seat back until he’s lying flat. He stares up at the ceiling. What was probably a nice interior at one point has since decayed. There are several flaps of fabric hanging down in the back seats and a stain or two that Richie either doesn’t want to talk about or he hasn’t fully identified. Stan seems to be studying them, eyes flicking around the destroyed tapestry. A few beats pass before he finally relents to Richie. “I do.”

Then, out of nowhere, Stan fucking laughs. He gives a few breathy chuckles, eyes still locked on the roof of the truck, and then a small smile graces his face. It’s a refreshing respite from the way things were feeling only a moment ago. Tense, taboo, fragile even. This is nice. This is good. This is how Richie wants them to feel. 

He drops the subject there and the cabin of the truck goes silent, save for the sound of the heat blasting and the easy roll of the engine. Richie leans his seat back, too. 

“I’ve missed this,” Stan says and Richie just hums in agreement. There’s a comfort in the silence that falls over them, a familiarity that Richie likens to his own home. He could fall asleep here if he really wanted to. Stan looks asleep already, eyes closed and fingers laced behind his head. Richie knows better, though. He notices the slight crease in his forehead and knows Stan is deep in thought. Richie almost regrets bringing up the whole subject because for someone who’s so put together, Stan has the self-confidence of a fucking toothpick – which is insane because any broad or dame would be lucky to take the hand of Stanley Uris. He’s a keeper, no doubt. 

He’s glad they talked, though. He would go to war for Stan, even against Stan himself. 

They stay like that until Bev knocks on the window, scaring the piss out of them. She just throws her head back and laughs as she climbs into the backseat. She’s got a track hoodie thrown over her tank top and a duffle back over her shoulder and it makes Richie warm with affection. She looks just as tired as they both feel. “C’mon, losers. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 

Dark clouds are only just starting to cover the long Derry sky when Richie steps out into the field for practice on Friday afternoon. Most of the guys have some kind of water proof jacket in the dugout waiting for them when the inevitable comes. There’s been talk floating around the locker room the past few days of the spring storms that are rolling into Derry from the west. Richie has a jacket, too, somewhere at the bottom of his practice bag. Maggie bought it for him when he made the team.  _ You’ll need this, honey,  _ she’d said. He shrugged at her and threw it into his bag, but now he’s more thankful than he cares to admit because when he anxiously looks over his shoulder he knows he’s going to need it. 

It’s a rare occurrence these days that they don’t have a Friday game. With the season now rolling hard, most of his Fridays are over taken with travel and sand and fast heart rates. Most every other Friday is booked out until June but this one isn’t. This one is as free as he feels out in the field. Starting at five thirty, he’s gone with the wind and rain. Daylight savings time has only just taken hold of the country, so the sun sets just a little bit later than it used to. He’s stolen plans with Bev and Stan for later on, desperate to take advantage of the fading sunlight, even with the weather.

Lucky for the team, it doesn’t start to rain until after four, and even then it isn’t hard yet so practice keeps on keeping on. They do sprints, they run the bases, the coach hits them balls to field. All typical practice drills, really. All the kinds of stuff Richie has been doing for weeks now. His breath comes fuller and fuller when he stops running. His arms cast longer throws and his legs don’t hurt the way they used to. Even when practice drags, even when the rain starts to come down in earnest, Richie can’t say that he minds being out here as much as he maybe used to. 

By the time they’re getting ready to set up a small field, the sky is really starting to open up. It only takes a few seconds of harder rain for the coach to call it a day, yelling out, “alright boys, it’s Friday. How about we end a couple minutes early?” No one hesitates to take the opportunity, practically sprinting back to the dugout for shelter. Coach is right behind them, grabbing his own bag from the small shelter and radioing over to the varsity team. 

Richie is already packed and ready to run back to the locker room, Jake on his left and Charlie on his right, when Coach’s voice booms through the small space, “Varsity is gonna hang out for the last half hour and do sliding practice in the mud. The captains invited anyone from JV who wants to participate.” 

Jake shoots Richie a wicked look at the offer and Richie already knows what he’s going to be doing for the next thirty minutes. There’s a thrilling look on both of their faces as they pack up their bags and walk to the varsity field without their jackets on. They’re the only two JV boys to go over and Richie thinks that says something about how much more fun they are than the rest of the team. Don’t get him wrong, Charlie and the boys are great, but there is something mischievous in the way Richie and Jake pounce on the first opportunity to get as dirty and wet as they possibly can,  _ productively. _

When they make it to the other field, there are only about five boys left. Most of the varsity team seems to have abandoned practice as well, opting for an even earlier weekend and drier conditions. It’s tempting, sure, but Richie already had this time slot blocked out so there’s no reason he shouldn’t take it. Besides, variety and JV rarely get to spend time together anymore. It’s  _ bonding  _ god dammit. If Richie plans on making varsity next year he’s going to have to do a little bit of networking considering he only knows the names of two people there: Eddie and Markus. 

Eddie stands tall and proud next to Markus as the boys gather around them. T-shirts are soaked and sticking to the skin of everyone on the field and as the rain comes down, the sand turns into something coarse and muddy. 

“Small but mighty group, I see,” Eddie shouts, voice projecting over the sounds of the elements, “we’re not going to be sliding on the field. There's a mud patch behind the away team’s dugout that is perfect for this kind of thing. I know JV has already learned how to do back slides but I want to focus on chest slides today. Everyone cool with that?”

A chorus of yes’s sound out from the boys. There is a prickle of excitement starting to spark in the veins of Richie’s forearms as they walk to the designated area. He can’t help the way his eyes stay on Eddie’s back as he leads. Besides Jake, Eddie is the person he’s most familiar with here. Markus is alright, he guesses, but if he had to pick between the two he’d pick Eds every single time. 

They take up their post behind the dugout and the captains stand up front. Markus quickly explains how it’s done: arms straight up and chest out, do not try to brace yourself with your hands, you could break your wrist. Keep your hands extended and wait for them to touch the base. Do not lock your elbow. 

“Alright, watch how it’s done!” Eddie shouts and then he’s off. He hardly gives Markus a second of breathing room after the lesson before he breaks out into a run towards the patch and launches himself forward. Mud and water fly out as his body connects with the ground and he torpedoes forward. When he stops, he rolls over and bursts into a full out belly laugh. His face is covered in mud and he wipes it away as he stands up, face beaming and laughter still falling from his lips. “God this was an amazing idea!”

Markus goes next. He slides further than Eddie does, coming up above the deeper muddy patch and into the wet grass. Richie watches all of them slide and thinks about how to do it. His heart is pounding in his chest both out of excitement and apprehension. It’s safer in the mud than on the sand, but there is a small, persistent fear of fucking it up that he can’t shake. Unintentionally, he forces himself to the back of the line behind Jake and observes. Even though his laughter and absolutely idiocracy, he pays attention to the subtle movements of everyone’s body. 

By the time it’s his turn, the entire group is waiting for him on the other side of the patch and, fuck, maybe going last was a bad idea because all eyes are on him. Jake and Eddie stand at the front and cheer his name, Richie’s name, at full volume. They’re as loud and as silly as they want to be and it makes Richie’s entire heartrate double or triple in time as he leans forward. Absentmindedly, he tucks his water stained glasses into the back pocket of his sweatpants. 

The run he breaks out into is mediocre at best and when he launches himself to the ground, he hits  _ hard  _ and he’s blinded almost immediately. He doesn’t break his arms like he’s scared he might, but his chest echoes with the force of his landing. The only thing he knows is the feeling of the wet, thick mud on his clothes and on his face and in his hair. It’s cold and get almost everywhere, even down his shirt. It slides between his fingertips and he can feel every single bump and dip in the slick ground as he moves forward. It feels never-ending, too. Like he’s flying and he’s never going to stop. Time fades away and he’s left in this weird muddy warp of space and limitless and speed as the bun on his head pulls back from the force of the wind. 

When he finally comes to a stop, it isn’t naturally. His hands connect with something firm and steady but with the amount of mud on his face mixed with his shitty eyesight he has no fuckling clue what it is. Is it the dugout? Is it a tree? Is it God, himself? There’s no finding out because he can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out. With his face inches above the mud, he chokes out something mixed between a giggle and a chortle before transitioning into a full-blown cackle. 

He can’t move when he’s laughing, not on his own, so he stays like that until someone reaches down and grabs his wrists. They hoist him up off the ground and onto his knees before Richie feels a damp article of clothing rubbed across the expanse of his face, clearing the mud. It takes him another few seconds of confused and distorted laughter before he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his glasses.

It isn’t God himself who is kneeling in front of Richie, but Eddie. When he comes into focus, Richie can see an amused and gentle look on his face before he stands up. Richie gets to his own feet and looks around at the other boys before throwing his hands up and screaming, unbridled, at the top of his lungs. No one can hear them as they all join in, screaming and whooping and calling out, shaking all of the energy and excitement and ridiculousness from their bones. 

“Good form, boys!” Markus cheers and they repeat the drill a few more times until they’re soaked from head to toe. Richie can feel mud literally  _ everywhere  _ on their walk back to the locker rooms. It’s in unholy places, places mud should never be on a human being, that make him walk funny and slowly. Jake walks similarly and as they cast looks to each other they can’t help but tease each other. 

Only three of them hit the showers, the other four electing to just change their clothes and hit the road. Richie decides that while Betsy is a hot damn mess inside and out, she does not deserve this kind of treatment. He strips in the shower and tosses his clothes by the drain, letting the hot water rinse the majority of the mud from them before he kicks them out under the stall. He can’t help but stand under the spray for a moment. There’s a persistent chill in his bones that he didn’t know was there until he got inside. It turned his lips and fingertips blue and made his shoulders shake with little control. The heat from the shower is amazing and slowly, he can feel those effects starting to wane. 

He uses the travel shower supplies Maggie insisted on putting in his bag. The mud mixes with the foam of his shampoo and circles down the drain in a hypnotizing fashion. 

He showers longer than the other boys, hearing their sprays shut off long before he’s ready to get out. For that reason, he expects the locker room to be empty by the time he finishes. He fully expects himself to be the only person left in there as the clock ticks toward six o’clock. 

He’d left his duffle outside of his stall and once he’s dry, he shrugs on a loose t shirt and basketball shorts that he stole from Stan. They hang a little short on his long legs, but they’re comfortable in the way that all of Stan’s clothes are. Bastard only buys the expensive shit, which is the precise reason Richie nabs as much of it as he can get away with. 

Once he’s dressed and his hair is slung back in a wet ponytail, he crosses the room to his own locker. It’s quiet in there and he takes a little bit of solace in it. Practice was loud and full of excitement and this is his unintentional downtime. This is something he secretly takes advantage of. 

He doesn’t get a lot of alone time by default, especially now that he’s involved in organized sports. Between class, family, his friends, and the team, Richie always has somewhere to be these days. He loves it, truly he does, but there are little solitary moments that he steals away for himself. It’s like a small recharge on his battery and it’s usually much needed so he stands at his locker and takes a few deep breaths in and out. 

He’s not alone, though. Not entirely. The sound of a locker closing catches him off guard and when he turns to see where it came from he catches sight of Eddie not too far away from him. His blonde hair is darker and wetter and plastered to whatever skin it can reach. He’s facing away from Richie, maybe even unaware that Richie is there at all, and he’s only dressed from the waist down. A fresh pair of sweatpants cling to his hips and a pair of bright yellow boxers poke out from the top of them. Richie takes the entire sight in: the way Eddie’s back slopes up into the muscles of his shoulders; the way the skin on his arms cuts into a distinct farmers tan right below his shoulder; how much paler the skin that’s typically under his shirt is from his face and neck and arms; how the muscles of his bicep jump out ever so subtly as he moves his arms and fiddles with whatever the fuck he’s holding. Fucking hell, Eddie really grew up. 

Richie Motormouth Tozier can’t help himself sometimes. Whether he’s happy, sad, emotional, anxious, mad, or literally any range of human emotion, his idiot box of a voice just starts up. He’s like the engine to a shitty car: loud and uncontrollable. So, when he says, “Spaghetti Boy is a bad nickname. We should call you Spaghetti Man,” he really shouldn’t be surprised with himself. He is surprised, though, and so is Eddie because he jumps and spins around to face Richie almost immediately. 

Richie even accompanies the comment with a gesture of his hand, sweeping it up and down as if to showcase Eddie to the empty locker room. 

“Don’t be fucking gross,” Eddie says and if there’s an edge to his voice, Richie doesn’t catch it. Richie doesn’t catch much these days besides pop flies and pop quizzes and pop naps. He just rolls his eyes and shrugs. Once Richie’s engine revs there’s little he can do to stop the onslaught of bullshit that comes next. Eddie should be well used to this by now, anyway. 

“Yeah, I get it. Not everyone can handle the Tozier Train. Beep-beep, all aboard casa de Richie,” Richie practically sings, spinning in a tight circle and pretending to pull on a string to imitate a horn. “And lookie here, I’ve got me a first class ticket for one Edward Kaspbrak,” Richie keeps spinning, moves closer to where Eddie stands at his locker. He’s got his shirt still bunched up in his hands and there’s a faint pink spreading across his face and neck. Just the reaction Richie was looking for. There’s nothing better than getting a rise out of Eddie. They used to play this game all the time when they were little. How far could Richie go before Eddie broke and told him to knock it off. Always with a smile, always with a strange giggle under his breath but with enough force that Richie knew the line had been drawn. 

Toeing that line was like walking on air. Richie practically got high off of pushing people’s buttons; making them tick and jump and laugh at things they never thought were funny. He’d never hurt them, of course, but his patented Tozier Brand of Humor always managed to push the envelope a little harder, a little wider. 

“C’mon, Eds, all aboard. You know you can’t resist.”

Eddie spins around at that, and Richie didn’t realize how close he was getting because Eddie is suddenly right in his space. It takes him by surprise and makes him stumble backwards a little, but Eddie prevents him from going far because he’s suddenly got his hands in Richie’s shirts, bunched too tight by the worn-down collar. They stay like that for a moment: Richie off balance on his toes and Eddie staring at him, inches away from his face. 

Richie laughs, he can’t fucking help it. Eddie looks so worked up and he knows, he fucking knows, that it’ll be just a few more seconds until Eddie huffs and puffs and bites back in that signature Kaspbrak style. _ C’mon Eds, gimme a little something-something. I know you’ve got it in you. I’ve seen that fire and I want it lit, I want it bright. _

“Don’t fucking call me Eds,” he grits out between tight pressed teeth and Richie can see the way the faint blush has grown to an all-encompassing red. It’s under his freckles and on his shoulders and below his collarbone. Richie’s grin just grows into what can only be described as a cheshire smile. This is it, here it comes. That Tozier-Kaspbrak Banter is back in business, folks. 

“I’m not a fucking faggot, got it?”

Time stops for a second. The weight of Eddie’s words barring down into Richies knees, making them basically crumble under his own weight. It’s probably a good thing Eddie still has a grip on his shirt because he’d be on the floor right now without it. That’s… not what he fucking expected to hear. Far from it, really. Yeah, sure, maybe Eddie would bite back with something a little aggressive, but this? 

Something passes over Eddies face and Richie swears he looks almost sorry, looks almost ashamed of what he’d said and maybe he’s going to apologize, but it’s gone in an instant. They just stare at each other, wide eyed and angry and shocked before Eddie pushes him. He lets go of the shirt and Richie’s back connects with the lockers behind him. The sound of metal on metal echoes in the otherwise quiet room. 

Richie doesn’t even have time to realize he’s sitting on the ground, now, before Eddie is out the door. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets play a game called “I spy with my little eye the canon references Ems slips in for her own self indulgence” or, alternatively to those who haven’t read the book “which part is a vicious self insert”
> 
> I genuinely cannot believe the amount of love and support this fic is getting it’s filling my heart up to the absolute brim thank you all so much! I love you all to pieces and the comments/love this has been getting really, really means a lot to me. I hope you still love me/it after reading this chapter lmao. Before you get TOO mad please remember this is an angst with a happy ending story and I have not been secret about that with my tags. That being said please feel free to let loose in the comments. 
> 
> It might take a little whole for chapter 7, my summer term is in full swing, but I’m really gonna try for it to not be too, too long of a wait.


	7. Casual Affliction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long, thin fingers run through his hair. They catch on the knots in his curls and yank slightly, the light sting bringing a bit of relief from his blistering frustration. A heavy, involuntary sigh escapes his lips. Bev shoots him a single curious glance before she looks back down and circles an answer. Richie looks at his own mostly complete section and then back at the clock. Everyone else in the room is scanning their papers so thoroughly, so intently. It’s awful, how much they all care about this. It’s meaningless. It’s a useless, piece of shit exam that’s can’t tell a college admissions board shit about who they are.
> 
> There’s a knot in his back from where one of the locks dug into his skin when he was pushed up against the lockers. He can’t seem to get it to loosen up, no matter how many hot showers he takes. The band of tension that’s wrapping itself around his temples and forehead is also unrelenting. Everything is unrelenting. Everything fucking sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of previously used slurs

_ “I’m afraid we have to take him to the hospital, Mrs. Kaspbrak. I – yes, they are all being suspended. No, that is out of the school’s jurisdiction. Yes.  _ Yes _. No – Mrs. Kaspbrak, please. Your son is going to be fine, I promise.” _

_ The nurse’s voice fades into the background. In the grand scheme of things, it’s unimportant. What’s actually important is how Eddie is still crying, curled into a ball on his side as he cradles his arm. It’s no longer full-blown sobs anymore but a constant stream of tears and soft sniffling. Richie has blotted Eddie’s face several times with a napkin, collecting any fluids that gather on the skin. It’s futile, though. All they end up with is a wet napkin and a still damp face.  _

_ There isn’t any blood like in the movies, no bone sticking out through broken skin, which  _ thank god _. Richie isn’t sure he’d be able to handle that right now. For all the shit he talks, blood and gore would only make things worse. Eddie  _ definitely _ wouldn’t be able to handle it. He can hardly handle this as it is. Richie wants to collect this small, broken boy into his arms and take all the pain away. Eddie didn’t deserve this. It should have been Richie on that nurse’s bed instead. It should be Richie crying and holding onto a broken arm.  _

_ “Sonia, please. You really don’t have to do that. They’re already on their way.” A pause. “Okay. I understand. Yes, I’ll let him know.” Richie can hear Sonia’s voice screeching through the other end of the phone before it abruptly cuts off. The nurse just heaves a heavy sigh and hangs the phone up onto the receiver before turning to the two boys. She pads over softly, making sure not to startle either of them. “Eddie, honey. Your mother is on her way. She should be here in about five minutes. She’s going to take you to the ER herself.” _

_ There is a shift in Eddie, then. The fabric of his shirt bunches up a little bit around his shoulders and his face darkens. Tears pour slightly quicker out of him, like a faucet turned up from a drip to a small trickle. Richie brings the napkin up and tries to catch some of the tears before they hit the bed.  _

_ The nurse pushes his hair back from his head and gives him a gentle, sympathetic smile, and then she’s walking back to her desk. With the phone conversation over, the room goes alarmingly quiet. Richie is suddenly aware of every single movement he makes. If he shifts in his seat, the creaking from the pleather echoes against the tile; if Eddie sniffles, the sound of it could probably he heard all the way back in Mr. Gerard’s Chemistry class. Richie even worries that if he thinks too loud in this quiet room, the entire school will be able to read his mind.  _

_ So, he tries not to think. Instead, he just looks. Eddie is so small on the bed. He’s resting with his good arm pressed into the pleather and his knees drawn all the way up into his chest. His bad arm hangs down and he has it skillfully tucked against himself, protecting it from any further harm. It looks like it might be the most comfortable position for him, but the thought of how much pain he’s still in makes Richie’s stomach churn.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Richie whispers. It’s so soft, just the hint of a voice, and he thinks that Eddie doesn’t hear him because there is no movement or noise in response. Eddie just lays there, sniffling and staring into the orange of Richie’s gym shirt.  _

_ “It’s not your fault.” If Richie’s voice was a whisper Eddie’s is a ghost. It’s barely there and Richie’s surprised he hears it at all. There is a crack in the sound, the way everyone’s voice scratches when they cry and Richie’s heart breaks just a little bit further at the sound of it.  _

_ There are a thousand different responses threatening to come out of Richie’s mouth.  _ I should have stopped him. I should have picked a better hiding spot. I shouldn’t have made you ditch gym with me. It should have been me.  _ None of those come out, though. For once, Richie doesn’t say anything at all. He stares at the cracks in the bed.  _

_ Eddie doesn’t say anything either. The silence of the room is almost deafening. Nothing but the  _ clack, clack, clack of _ the keyboard at the nurse’s desk. In a desperate attempt to both busy himself and distract Eddie, Richie dabs at the wet spots on Eddie’s face again. The damp tissue soaks up as much as it can, dries pooling puddles of salt and pain and regret. Then, automatically, almost as if he moves without giving himself permission, Richie’s hand settles right in front of Eddie’s resting form. Eddie’s eyes flick to it for a second, almost hesitantly, before he moves his good hand towards it. With his palm open and facing up, he snakes his fingers underneath Richie’s hand until they’re tangled together and clasped tight.  _

_ Richie squeezes back, matches Eddie’s grip, and the two of them just sit there. If the nurse notices, she doesn’t say anything. She just continues to do her work in silence, letting boys be boys in the solitary safety of her office. Richie almost wishes they never had to leave. Not because he doesn’t want Eddie to get better, but because he knows they’re okay here. They’re safe from the horror of their middle school hallways.  _

_ Eddie seems like he’s calming down a little bit. The steady stream of tears has slowed to one or two falling every now and then. Richie doesn’t need to dab at the skin nearly as often, which he’s thankful for. He doesn’t want to let go of Eddie’s hand. There’s something grounding in the way their fingers fit together, like it’s tethering them both down to earth. He’d like to believe Eddie feels the same way. His eyes have slipped closed now and, despite the blotchy red skin and puffy eyes that comes with crying, he looks almost peaceful.  _

Tick. Tap. Tock. Tap. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

Tick, tock, tick. 

Fuck. 

These classes are such a waste of fucking time. Why is he even here? What does this have to do with anything? He has one day a week, one single fucking day, where he can actually sleep in and enjoy his fucking mornings and Maggie just  _ had  _ to go and enroll him in this stupid fucking class.  _ Oh, don’t worry sweetheart its only a month. Oh, don’t worry hun you’ll barely even notice. Oh, it’s better to keep your sleep schedule consistent anyway.  _

Oh, fuck you! Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on and your stupid fucking  _ my house, my rules  _ bullshit. His GPA is fine! His grades are fine! This is a waste of everyone’s time and money! This is just… it’s fucking crap! There are more important things going on right now! More important things he could be doing! Like sleeping, or cleaning his room, or taking a shower, or literally anything else besides this. 

Bev sits across from him, eyes shifted down to focus on the practice exam in front of her. She is not stupid, not by any means, but it makes about a thousand percent more sense for her to be in this room than Richie. Just because he’s not a gold star tutor like Stan is doesn’t mean he isn’t ready for the SATs. It doesn’t mean he’s not going to blow that exam out of the fucking water. He’s going to kill it! He’s going to get into any school he fucking wants! God dammit! Fuck! Fucking shit! Augh!

Long, thin fingers run through his hair. They catch on the knots in his curls and yank slightly, the light sting bringing a bit of relief from his blistering frustration. A heavy, involuntary sigh escapes his lips. Bev shoots him a single curious glance before she looks back down and circles an answer. Richie looks at his own mostly complete section and then back at the clock. Everyone else in the room is scanning their papers so thoroughly, so intently. It’s awful, how much they all care about this. It’s meaningless. It’s a useless, piece of shit exam that can’t tell a college admissions board shit about who they are. 

There’s a knot in his back from where one of the locks dug into his skin when he was pushed up against the lockers. He can’t seem to get it to loosen up, no matter how many hot showers he takes. The band of tension that’s wrapping itself around his temples and forehead is also unrelenting. Everything is unrelenting. Everything fucking sucks. He takes in another sharp breath through his nose and Bev’s eyes snap back up. 

“What’s your problem?” she whispers. Her voice is harsh and when he looks back up at her, her eyes are sharp and accusing. The tone of it makes his skin fucking  _ crawl.  _

“Nothing,” he seethes back and the instructor gives them a harsh shush. She narrows her eyes and then looks back down, scribbling something into the margins of her paper. He distantly hopes it’s not an angry note to him because the instructor has to collect this bullshit when it’s done. He scribbles his own notes into the margins, his own answers, and continues on with his practice exam. 

As soon as he’s done, he practically slams his pencil down and leans back. His head tips back and rests on the top of the chair as he slides down into a position that is simultaneously more comfortable and excruciatingly painful. He doesn’t care. 

The clock keeps ticking. The scratching of everyone’s pencils echoes off the painted brick walls and bounces around in his brain. Someone’s chewing gum, someone is clicking their pen on and off. Someone’s going to get their shit beat if they don’t stop humming. 

“Okay, time's up. Close your books and pass them down to the end of the table. I’m going to grade them over the week and we can discuss your scores next Sunday.”

Thank fucking  _ god _ . For a second there, Richie honestly wasn’t sure how much more he’d be able to take. Every single sound was driving him up the god damn wall and it was only a matter of time before he rounded on poor, unsuspecting Bill for clicking that fucking pen. 

He’s out of his seat in an instant, throwing his bag over his shoulder and slipping into the hallway. He makes it roughly two feet out of the front doors before Bev grabs him by the arm. “Hey, fuckface, why did you bail on us the other night?”

“Something came up,” Richie cuts. He doesn’t mean to be as harsh as he is, but his voice snips through both of them like scissors on poster board. 

“Oh yeah? Something big enough to ignore all of our texts yesterday?”

God dammit. He knew this was going to come back around and bite him in the ass at some point. He had just hoped that it would be a little later when, you know, he’s calmed down and all that shit. Because right now he’s not calm. No siree he’s the opposite of calm. He spent the better part of yesterday either asleep or holed up in his room with his stereo blasting and his door locked and his phone on silent. Too bad it didn’t help ease his frustration as much he thought it would. 

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Oh, fuck you!” She practically shouts back. Her voice is loud enough, angry enough that several people leaving the building around them stop and turn their heads. Richie pauses for only a moment before pulling his arm from her grasp. “What the hell, Richie?”

“What?” His voice still has an edge to it, sharp and unforgiving and tired, but there’s also a sigh of exhaustion in it. Like someone took his breath and pulled it out with the word, mixing air and voice and emotion all at once. 

She doesn’t answer him. She just stands there, arms now crossed over her chest and eyes on his. This isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t want a fight or an argument or for Bev to be angry with him. He doesn’t even want to be angry at all, but he can’t help it. There is a firestorm of emotions going on inside of him. It’s burning him up from the inside out, flames licking up into his throat and brain and eyes and heart. It burns and hurts and makes him so tired. So fucking tired. 

He lets out a heavy sigh and runs his hands through the ink of his curls again before he relents. “Not here.”

Bev grabs his arm again, but this time instead of gripping him she gently slips her arm through his and walks with him to his truck. As soon as the doors are unlocked she climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door. Richie gives her a curious look when he gets inside, but she just mumbles something about walking home anyway and Richie shrugs. Bev doesn’t have a car yet and she has no plans to get one. Cars are awesome, yeah, but it’s not like she has a job or the spare money lying around. Cars are fucking expensive and he can’t even pretend to know what things are like for her at home. He’d been to her apartment one or two times when they were kids, and he’s been to her Aunt’s place a handful of times since she came to Derry. He knows things are tight. Bev doesn’t have a dentist father and a working mom. Hell, she doesn’t even have parents anymore. She’s got what she’s got and she makes it work, so whenever she sits her ass down in the front seat of his car he just starts the engine and takes her where she wants to go. 

“Where to, my love?” He asks. His voice is raised to top the sound of the engine and heat clicking on. 

She buckles her seatbelt into place and says, “Tozier Residence, please.” Her tone isn’t angry like before, but it isn’t her normal tone, either. There’s unsaid tension slipping into it that is undoubtedly Richie’s fault. 

He doesn’t question her, just shifts his truck into drive and pulls out of the parking lot. The building they’re forced to go to every Sunday morning isn’t too far away from Richie’s house, only a ten-minute drive without any stop lights. He takes the familiar roads on autopilot, occasionally glancing over at his passenger. She’s gazing out the window, eyes a little bit far away and arms crossed over her chest to savor her own body warmth. The heating from the car is old and slow to warm up but she doesn’t complain. Despite the cold, both of them have their windows cracked open and Richie lights a cigarette, taking a deep drag before passing it across the cab to Bev. She takes it wordlessly. 

There’s still something crawling beneath his skin as he drives. Something itchy and angry and raw. It’s big enough, overwhelming enough, that he doesn’t talk for the majority of the ride home. 

It isn’t until they’re only a few blocks from Richie’s house that Bev finally brings it up. “So, you gonna tell me?”

Richie reflexively grips the steering wheel a little bit harder. There’s no getting out of this conversation no matter how badly he wants to. He doesn’t want to relive what happened. He doesn’t want to think about it, either, but he can’t help it. He can’t help any of this. “Eddie Kaspbrak is a fucking asshole.”

“Whoa, where the fuck did that come from?” The shock in her voice is loud and clear. He glances from the road for a second and sees her turned and facing him, seatbelt straining against her neck and shoulder. “Eddie is like, the sweetest boy in the entire town of Derry! He’s every parent’s wet dream and every girls fantasy. I mean, come on, have you seen his arms? Those are baseball arms, hun. And that ass in those pants. Maybe you’ll have all that one day.” She reaches out and squeezes his less than impressive bicep jokingly. Richie knows she’s just teasing him, but he doesn’t laugh. 

He rolls his eyes and scoffs, almost unintentionally, which has her pulling her hand away and giving him a strange look. “Alright, I’ll bite. What happened?”

“He called me a fag.”

“Are you serious?” Her voice has gone from silly to serious, shock laced through it.

“Yeah. He fucking pushed me and called me a faggot.” The words come out in little broody puffs of air. Richie’s voice is deep and dark, almost rough around the edges as he talks. Bev, ever supportive as she is, looks like she’s about to lose her damn mind. Her mouth is hanging open and she’s staring at Richie with wide eyes, her brows separated by a deep line in the middle of her forehead as she works through Richie’s accusation. It only takes a moment before her processing turns into reacting and she’s practically yelling

“What the fuck?!”

“I know!”

She sits back in her seat with an audible thump as Richie turns into his driveway. He parks Betsy behind his mother’s car and cuts and shifts it into park, letting the rumble of the engine settle into his lower back and thighs. “Richie, that’s like,  _ totally  _ fucked up. We have to do something. We have to – fuck. I don’t know. Wait – yeah. You should go to the coach!” The whole thing has obviously thrown her for some kind of a loop because she’s tripping over every word as she works through the situation. 

“What? No way,” he objects. He cuts the engine and just turns to stare at her. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“No, I’m fucking your mother,” she says without missing a single beat. Neither of them stops to laugh at the joke. It was more of a knee jerk reaction than a genuine attempt to relieve the tension, anyway. “He can help. Maybe sit Eddie down or, I don’t know, talk to the team about discrimination and shit.”

She’s making sense. So much sense that it pisses Richie off because he knows he  _ should  _ go to the coach. With any other person he’d drag them down to the office himself but right now he wants nothing to do with it. He hardly even wants to be having this conversation with one of his closest friends but the cat is already out of the bag. The desert-worm-hole has opened up and they’ve both been sucked into it and now they’re going to spend the next few hours whirling around until they come to the decision Richie was always going to make: do absolutely nothing. 

“That’ll just make it worse,” he sighs. Its partially in defeat, but partially in acceptance as well. Genuinely, he doesn’t want to do anything about it. Eddie was an asshole. Big fucking deal. For as upset as he is about the entire thing, he also hardly feels anything at all. Anger, ambivalence, what’s the difference anyway? “I don’t want to be singled out.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“No, but I’m the one who’s got the problem here. If I keep my mouth shut, no one has to know. There doesn’t have to be this big thing and we can all just keep playing baseball. It’s not like we’re even on the same team, anyway.” He punctuates his sentence with the sounds of his seatbelt unclicking and sliding back into its holder. 

As if to signify that this conversation is over, he opens the door and slips out. Bev is only a few seconds behind him, locking and slamming her own door and then trailing behind Richie up to the front door. She laces her arm carefully through Richie’s once she catches up to him, pressing a gentle kiss to the shoulder of his jacket while he digs his keys out of his pocket. She doesn’t say anything and Richie is grateful for even a moment of peace because he knows that once they’re inside this conversation is picking right back up where it left off. 

Warm air from the house hits them square in the face once the front door opens. It feels good, a stark contrast to the cold from the classroom and his car. It feels nice on his skin. Bev hurriedly steps around him and into his house, chasing the warmth. 

“How was class, Rich?” Maggie calls from other room only a few seconds after the front door clicks shut. 

“Awful,” he calls back, voice doing little to compromise the honesty of his words. “Do I really have to keep going?”

“Yes, honey,” Maggie answers, voice closer now as she makes her way from the kitchen to the front of the house. “Your father already paid for the classes. Besides, only two more weeks.” By the time she makes it to the area connecting the living room and the kitchen, Richie and Bev have already taken off their jackets and shoes and are making their way to the stairs. “Bev, sweetie, so good to see you. Are you staying for dinner?”

“I’d love to, Mrs. T.”

“Good! We have plenty of seats at the table,” Maggie says and she smiles that kind of warm, motherly smile that makes a house feel like a home. Despite it being only noon, she’s got an apron on and is covered in what Richie can only assume is flour and other baking ingredients. Some of whatever she makes this weekend will stay home but most of it will go to various places throughout the week. Sometimes Went will take it with him to the office, sometimes Maggie to hers. Other times it ends up at PTA meetings or community events. Most recently, though, it’s ended up at one of Richie’s games. 

A small moment passes between Maggie and Bev, both still smiling at each other, before Richie gently grabs Bev’s wrist and urges her up the stairs. 

“You know, if I didn’t know any better I’d be more worried about how much you drag miss Beverly here up to your room,” Maggie says and Richie straight up groans. God, it’s like this woman has no filter. Every time he brings a friend over she’s got some snide comment about something. Bev and Stan are used to it at this point, having known both Maggie and Went for just as long as they’ve known Richie, but what will happen the day he decides to invite Jake over for dinner? Huh? What’s going to happen  _ then? _

“Mom! Seriously?” Richie cries, a cross between sheer disgust and terror passing over his face. Both Maggie and Bev break out into hysterical laughter, Maggie leaning against the wall and Bev throwing her arms around Richie’s waist. 

She presses herself right into Richie’s side and laughs, “Oh, be afraid. Mrs. T. Be very afraid. I think I might corrupt your young, innocent boy!”

“Oh, please! I don’t think –”

“Bye, mom! Got schoolwork to do and shit,” Richie says, cutting her off very intentionally. He’s not about to have them sit there and talk shit about him right in front of his face, so he turns and practically drags a still giggling Bev up the stairs and far away from Maggie. As soon as his bedroom door slams shit he turns on her and says, “You’re uninvited to dinner.”

“You couldn’t uninvite me even if you actually wanted to,” Bev scoffs between giggles, “Your mother likes me too much.” Richie makes a show of rolling his eyes in response and Bev sticks her tongue out at him. She hangs by the door, watching him as he makes his way over to his desk to shuck his school bag off his shoulder and then says, “You need to talk to him.”

No way. Fuck that shit. There is no way in hell Richie is going to talk to Eddie. Not after that bullshit he just pulled. What in god’s name makes her think that’s a good idea, huh? “I need to do fuck-all shit with him,” is all he says back, practically dropping down into the desk chair. It spins a little under his weight and he uses that to face her, crossing his arms and giving her the most indignant look he can manage. 

“No, seriously. You’re going to have to see him basically every day for the rest of the year. You’ve gotta let him know that shit wasn’t cool.”

“I think he already knows, Bev. Assholes know that what they’re doing isn’t cool, they just don’t fucking care.” She’s got a point but so does he, and he knows it. There is no reason in fresh hell that he should march up to Eddie and talk to him. It’s not his job to talk to Eddie! If Eddie fucking cared he’d talk to _Richie_. He’d march his ass right up to Richie and apologize. Man up and own up to the fact that he was a huge fucking asshole. Too bad Richie doesn’t see that happening anytime soon. Eddie isn’t known for his track record of apologies and owning up to shitty behavior. 

“It just,” she trails off for a moment, pausing as if to consider her words. Richie watches her as she looks around his room, eyes locking onto the open duffle bag by his hamper. Dirty flashes of red and black fabric are peaking through the top. Both of their eyes linger on it and Richie makes a mental note to throw them in the wash before he goes to bed. Bev is probably making some kind of mental note of her own. About what, he has no idea. “That doesn’t sound like Eddie. He’s just so, I don’t know. So nice.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not.” He tries to make his tone sound final but apparently it doesn’t work because Bev doesn’t back off. 

“Richie, I’m serious.”

“Me, too! Have you seen who he hangs out with? Fucking Bill  _ Denbrough _ !”

“Bill isn’t that bad and you know it.” Something shifts and Bev’s voice becomes the opposite of convincing. It almost sounds like there’s a slight edge of a laugh peaking around the corners of it, like someone told her a joke that really isn’t funny, like, super  _ not fucking funny  _ but she can’t help but laugh  _ just  _ a little bit. 

“Bill is a grade-A douche-bag with a shitty sense of humor and a superiority complex.” Bev looks ready to counter, but she hesitates. A small smile creeps over her face, just subtle enough not to derail the conversation, but Richie knows she agrees with him. “You know I’m right, don’t even try.”

Her smile grows for only a second, in a reminiscent type of way, before she says, “Yeah, and what about Ben and Mike, huh? The two sweetest boys in the school? They’re absolute Georgia peaches!”

“Don’t pull that shit with me. Everyone knows you’ve been in love with Ben since the second fucking grade.” Richie has a distant memory of a yo-yo and a bad movie and fiery red hair tucked into his twelve-year-old shoulder. Hanscom was there, too, tucked on her right side. Man, the past really does predict the future, doesn’t it? Those puppy dog eyes never faded, they just changed scenery. He looks at her down long hallways and she catches his eyes in parking lots. Too bad they’re both too stupid to make the first move. “It’s not my fault both of you are too chicken shit to ask the other out.”

“The timing has never been right. Besides, he probably doesn’t like me, anyway,” she says and Richie outright fucking  _ scoffs  _ at her because that is the most asinine bullshit he has ever heard. 

“Are you absolutely fucking with me right now? He looks at you like you put every single god damn star in the sky!” 

“Richie.”

“Don’t think I don’t see the way you two look at each other in Chem. What kind of bullshit high school lab partner fuckery is up with that? I mean, come on, Bev. Go get your man.”

“Stop making this about me and Ben. This isn’t about me and Ben, this is about you and Eddie.” Her voice has a characteristically defensive tone in it that lets Richie know he may have struck a chord. Too bad for her is that she struck a chord with him, too.

“There is no me and Eddie.”

“Stop deflecting!” She shouts. It’s not loud and angry, but it sure is something. Maybe frustration, maybe exasperation, but not true anger. As if to drive her point home, she throws herself back onto Richie’s bed. She bounces a few times before becoming still, the heels of her hands pressed tightly against her eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

Richie’s eyes roll out of his head. “I already told you what happened.”

“Tell me again,” she says, voice clear and steady. No sign of any expressive emotion, “from the top.”

Richie heaves a deep sigh in response and settles down next to her. He doesn’t throw his whole body back – Bev already stole that drama queen spot light – but he hits the mattress with more force than someone just laying down. They both stare up at the ceiling as the room settles into silence. The quiet of their space is a signal that she’s waiting for him. Her patience exists in a world without limits. It doesn’t matter how long it takes someone to get to where they need to be, as long as they’re going to get there one day it’s good enough for her. Maybe that’s why she’s been waiting on Ben all these years. She knows he’ll get there one day. That, or maybe she’s just blind and that’s why she’s dated around a little in the meantime. Sometimes, Richie can’t read her for shit. Her and Ben are so fucking head over heels, why don’t they just fucking date?

God, between her and Stan, Richie really has his money cut out for him. He may have ninety-nine problems but a boy sure as fuck ain’t one. 

He tells her everything. Every single detail from when he got covered from head to toe in mud to when Eddie pushed him against the lockers. Bev doesn’t say a word until he’s finished. She lays there, stock still and listening from her spot next to Richie on the bed. Richie listens to his own words as he talks, careful about how he phrases what sentence and the tone he inflicts on what words. He’s careful about the bitter emotions he still has over what happened. 

Richie met Bev after the end of the Eddie Era and Richie never really brought him up. So, when she asks, “Why would you say that to him?” He’s not quite sure how to answer. 

It’s something Richie would have said to any of his friends, really, but the mistake here is that Richie and Eddie aren’t friends. He’s not sure what they are but they’re obviously not friends because friends don’t react like that. Friends don’t help someone get better at something and then turn around and call them a faggot. Or, well, imply it. He didn’t outright call Richie one but his tone was enough to understand what he meant by it. 

God, he looked so mad. So disgusted. If he thinks about it for too long, Richie can still feel the way Eddie’s hands burned in the collar of his shirt. It makes his blood boil in his body to think about it. Eddie Kaspbrak,  _ varsity superstar,  _ is just as homophobic as everyone else in this stupid fucking town. 

It’s too complicated to say all of that. It’s too complicated to even begin to explain the slow, burning pyre of their friendship, so instead he says, “I thought he could take a joke.”

Bev hums in response and then goes quiet again. Richie can’t tell if she’s thinking about how to respond or how to change the subject. She’s got a completely straight face on as she looks up at the glow in the dark stars that litter Richie’s ceiling, pale in the afternoon sunlight. 

His own mind begins to wander for a moment. He thinks about everything he’s done that’s lead him up to this point. How he got his wires so fucking crossed and took it too far like he always does. Him and Eddie were doing fine up until now. Or, at least he thought they were. It’s only been a little over a month but he really thought they were getting along well. He thought that maybe the years would dissolve between the two of them and just fade away. It sure felt that way, if only for a moment. 

“I thought maybe we were friends,” he whispers and for a second he’s not sure if he said it out loud or thought it to himself. He must have said it, though, because Bev’s hand reaches over and pats his thigh gently. She leaves it there, running small circles into the fabric of his sweatpants while they both get lost in their own thoughts. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She’s not sorry because she feels bad or because she feels guilty. She’s not sorry because she takes responsibility or blames anyone in particular. She’s sorry because this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. People in Derry, they’re not accepting. They’re not loving and kind and open minded. They’re hard and hateful and mean. They’ll chew you up just because they don’t like the way you look. Throw in a little bit of gay or black or Jewish or anything that might make you stand out? That’s just  _ asking  _ for trouble. She’s sorry because she can’t take it away and she can’t make it stop. She can’t fix this for him no matter how badly she wants to. She’s sorry because this shouldn’t happen, especially not from someone he thought was his friend. But it does. It does happen and it might always happen because that’s the world they live in. And they can only hope that one day, when they’re far away from this fucked up town, they’ll able to surround themselves with as many loving, kind, accepting people as they can. One day, they’ll walk down Sunset Boulevard – him, Bev, and Stan – and they’ll never have to worry about things like this again. 

The anger that sat in his chest is gone, replaced with some kind of deep canyon. It’s like a crater, a void, a deep wound that opens up inside of him. It opens up big and angry and painful. All of the fight drains out of him for a moment and he lets himself practically melt into the mattress. He feels it, soft and firm under his body, as it cradles him against the rocking world. Bev’s hand on his thigh is like an anchor keeping him still and grounded while he lets this wash over him. And only then does the pit inside of him start to close again.

After a few seconds, he takes in a deep breath, the kind that makes his throat and eyes and chest light on fire, and stutters out a heavy sigh. Bev doesn’t mention the single tear that rolls out of the corner of his eye and neither does he. He just sits up, shakes his head a few times, and whispers, “It’s whatever, but thanks,” before he stands up and digs his phone out of his backpack. He falls back onto the bed, on his side facing away from her. 

Bev copies him and pulls her own phone from her pocket and unlocks it. Then, she rolls over and winds one arm around his lanky body. She presses close to him, presses a kiss on his shoulder blade, presses all of her love into him. 

They lay together in silence for maybe an hour, both scrolling through various social medias. The only times they really talk is when one of them shows the other something funny. Otherwise, the room is silent until Bev turns on some kind of playlist from her phone. Then, it’s just them and the music and their shitty memes and inside jokes. It’s enough to bring Richie down from whatever ledge he was on. A simple distraction. 

Until out of nowhere, Bev says, “Bill isn’t that bad, you know.”

Richie practically throws himself into a sitting position and turns to hover over her. “He stuck his tongue down your throat  _ on stage!” _

“Yeah, well, I can’t help that my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.” Bev levels him with the biggest, most serious look she can manage and they stare at each other for a moment. Time stops for only a second, both of them holding their breath, but it’s Richie who breaks first. He absolutely dissolves into a fit of giggles and once he breaks, Bev breaks, too. He leans over her, laying his upper body over hers and twisting himself at his hips in a way that is both comfortable and completely inhuman. She brings a hand up to run down his back. “Besides, we were in elementary school.”

“Fuck you, Marsh!” he laughs because he doesn’t really know what else to say. 

“Fuck you right back, Dickard,” comes out with probably way more affection than she intends, but neither of them mind.  

The rest of the evening carries on like that. They spend most of it up in Richie’s room with good music and bad jokes while Went and Maggie cook dinner below them. Richie isn’t sure what time his father actually got home, but by the time he and Bev make their way downstairs he’s sitting in the living room with a cup of tea in one hand and the TV humming in front of him. When he sees Bev, he greets her with that same parental love that Maggie had and she practically beams at the affection.

The entire bottom floor of the house smells like garlic and spices and something amazing. Richie didn’t even know he was hungry until he got downstairs but now his stomach is talking up something fierce. Bev helps him set the table, shooting the shit with his parents the entire time, and then they’re eating.

Maggie asks Bev about how the play is going and Bev is more than happy to answer, taking up most of the dinnertime conversation with the politics of the cast and the mechanics of the show. Tickets don’t go on sale for another month but both Maggie and Went are eager to buy them. It’s always been a Tozier Tradition to go see Bev’s shows every year. Stan comes, too, and the four of them sit in the audience while Bev sings her heart out on stage. This year will be no exception to that rule. He watches her as she talks, a look of love and adoration crossing over his face for her. She fits into his life perfectly and he never intends to let her go. 

After dinner, Richie drops her off at her apartment with leftovers and a kiss to the cheek and then heads home for the night, holing up in his room to get actual homework done instead of just laying around and shooting the shit. 

He doesn’t see her again until Monday afternoon, but he wishes she never left his side. He wishes she was right there with him when he got to school because he wants someone to talk to when he’s face to face with Eddie again. He wants her to be right next to him because she knows what happened. She’s the only other soul who knows outside of himself and Eddie. And maybe, judging by the way he looks at Richie with sympathetic eyes, Ben Hanscom. 

It’s brief, only a few seconds really, but Richie catches Eddie’s eye from down the hallway. Call it a bad stroke of luck, call it fate, call it whatever you might but it happens through the thick of the morning crowd. Eddie is at his own locker but he’s got his head turned toward Richie, almost like he was searching for him. 

As soon as they catch eyes, Eddie looks away. He buries his head in his open locker and starts shoving books into his backpack. Ben is right beside him, looking between Eddie and Richie like he knows what’s going on here. Maybe he does. Maybe Eddie makes no secrets about how he feels. Richie wouldn’t be surprised. Eddie has apparently has no problems letting people know where they stand with him. He’s grown out of his  _ silent separation _ habits and into a more aggressive, confrontational method. Sitting on a pedestal will do that to a person and, well, Eddie’s been sitting on that high throne for the better part of a few years now. When he got up there, Richie still isn’t sure, but like Bev had said: everyone loves him. 

Correction: not everyone. Not anymore. 

Richie watches the two of them, too lost in his own thoughts to really pull his eyes away. He watches Ben say something to Eddie and Eddie shake his head. He watches Eddie sling his backpack over the shoulder of his letterman jacket. And he watches as Eddie throws another glance over his shoulder, catching Richie’s eyes one more time, before he stalks off down the hall to his first class. Ben lingers for only a moment, giving Richie a look he can’t quite decipher, and then follows Eddie. 

There was a short, abortive moment where Richie thought maybe Eddie was going to walk toward him instead of away. He saw it play out in a flash in front of his eyes: Eddie apologizing and Richie accepting it. Maybe they’d get along well, go back to how it was before, but that clearly isn’t going to happen. So instead, Richie just watches him as he disappears through the crowd of classmates. 

_Without warning, the door to the office swings open. The metal slams against the wall and the sound of it rings out and startles every person within a two-mile radius. Sonia Kaspbrak, in all of her awful glory, stands in the doorway. “You!” she bellows like a smokestack, steam practically coming out of her ears and her face a bright cherry red. It’s not complimenting the yellow dress she has on. In fact, it makes her look like a dandelion that got a nasty bee sting on the top of it, all red and swollen and puss filled. “I always knew_ you’d _be the one_ _to hurt my Eddiebear!”_

_ She makes to charge at them both but the nurse is quickly on her feet and blocking her path. She opens her mouth to say something but Sonia is quicker, all but screaming, “You said they’d all been suspended!” _

_ “Sonia, please!” The nurse says back, voice desperate and slightly raised herself. “Richie wasn’t one of the boys who hurt Eddie. Those boys hurt him, too.” _

_ Sonia scoffs in her face and makes a show of rolling her eyes, hands on her wide hips. “Oh, sure! And you mean to tell me that this Tozier boy had nothing to do with this?” _

_ “I didn’t! I swear!” Any amount of self-control Richie might have had disappears with the overwhelming need to defend himself. However, this only proves to be yet another mistake because Sonia’s eyes lock onto Richie and Eddie. Specifically, she locks onto their hands.  _

_ “Don’t you touch him!” She screeches. The nurse is helpless to the way Sonia pushes past her and grabs onto Eddie’s and Richie’s hands. She rips them apart with an unnecessary amount of force and Eddie cries out at the movement. Richie’s own pain is secondary to Eddie’s. Until then, Eddie had just been laying there with his eyes clenched shut and a vice grip on Richie’s hand, but now he’s whimpering, holding his broken arm closer to his body. Fresh tears spill out over his eyes as his mother yanks him off the bed and onto his feet. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve only hurt him more.” _

_ Richie wants to scream at her, wants to shout that it was her who hurt Eddie. He was comfortable! She didn’t need to move him like that, she hurt him!  _

_ He doesn’t get a chance to, though, because the nurse is stepping back between them and narrowing her eyes at Sonia. “Mrs. Kaspbrak, I advise you take your son to the hospital now. He’s in need of medical care.” _

_ “Don’t you dare tell me what to do with my son,” she snaps. Her beady, round eyes focus in for only a moment before they’re back on Richie. “You, stay away from my Eddiebear, you filthy, filthy boy!” _

_ She turns then, all but dragging Eddie out of the nurse’s office by his good arm. He tries to keep his whimpers and winces silent, but Richie can still hear them as Sonia frantically sobs over Eddie’s condition. He listens as their voices fade down the hall until they’re out the front doors and gone.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys here we go! Chapter 7! Things are going to be picking up from here on out. I gave you almost 40k of character development and fluff and Richie so but now the train is rolling out of the station. Chugga chugga choo choo time for shit to get real. Well, as real as it can in a high school AU about two boys from a book where a child eating clown tries to kill everyone. But you know what I mean. 
> 
> I would like to remind everyone that this fic is thoroughly warned and tagged and I give warnings at the top of each chapter for sensitive content, so please if this material upsets you make the responsible decision and do not read it. I would like to think you guys have read the tags and warnings so you know what you're getting into. If you read it and get upset, then that's out of my hands. I'm not going to tolerate shitty comments on this fic or in my ask box about it. You have literally been warned. We're all adults here and even if you're not, you're making the decision to read Mature Content. At this point, this is your responsibility. 
> 
> That being said, if something ISN'T warned or tagged for that you encounter PLEASE let me know and I will rectify that immediately. 
> 
> On a much more positive note, thank you all so much for the amazing comments and the wonderful support. You guys make me look forward to being able to sit down and write this fic. I have several scenes for ch8 already written so I'm hoping to be quicker with it, but as always no promises. 
> 
> Amazing thank you to my wondrous and generous beta  Oldguybones  who takes time out of her life to go over this fic with me and chat about scenes/errors/and set ups. She gives me the most important feedback ever and without her this story wouldn't be half as good at is it. Please please please go check out her fic Meet Met In The Graveyard because I'm OBSESSED with it and will promo it at any given moment.


	8. High School Parties Are Overrated, Anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song switches to something faster, something with a harder beat and Richie switches, too. He starts bouncing up and down, eyes fall closed again and arms moving up into the air. He recognizes the sound of Pink’s voice echoes through the house. He’s always loved her. She doesn’t give a shit about anything but at the same time she cares about everything. She creates such meaningful music, things that touch on the everyday feelings of life and love and adulthood; things Richie has never dreamed of experiencing yet but almost looks forward to. She bears her entire soul for the world to hear, for him to hear. And her voice sounds like rough satin. A startlingly amazing contradiction.  
> He isn’t sure how long he’s dancing but like all good things, he’s interrupted. Not by anyone else, though. By his own daunting need to take a piss. It’s been building for a while now but he’s been ignoring it, unwilling to break the seal. However, when he cracks his eyes open and sees the clock read past midnight, he knows he probably should. The night won’t be here forever, so he might as well take a leak when he has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: underage drinking

To say the week passes easily would be a lie. It doesn’t. It passes much like a hurricane might, all windy and wet and chaotic. There are moments when Richie can’t even tell up from down. His lefts are rights and his rights are diagonals. His fingers twitch on his desk during class and they pick at the rubber wraps on baseball bats. Swings go crooked and, despite their power, fouls fly into left field more than he wants them to. He can’t escape it, the agita bubbling up in his chest everywhere he turns. Rapid heartbeats and cold sweats and poor grades on pop quizzes, all of it inescapable.

The feeling of Eddie’s eyes lingers on him all throughout the week. He doesn’t even know if he’s seen Eddie much since then, but he feels it crawling all over him. Something burns into the center of his back like a laser sight, strong and present. Never fading. 

The burning gets especially bad whenever he actually sees Eddie. It’s always in passing and they never get too close, but it lights up like fire. The agita gets worse, blooming in his chest and down the veins in his forearm. His vision swims a little bit, his breath comes a little shorter, and his own emotions spike in a million different thorns.

Pre-practice is hardly bearable. The locker room has no air in it when they’re both in there. It’s suffocating in a way that is personal and deeply discreet. Game days are easier. Tuesday and Thursday mean that they don’t really see each other at all. There is a catch of blonde hair in the hallway that could be anyone, Richie tells himself. All other distinguishing features aside, it’s just another anonymous face in at Derry High. But Monday and Wednesday? Richie can’t breathe. Jake jokes about how he’s never seen Richie strip so fast. Charlie counters with how he’s never seen Richie  _ dress  _ so fast. Richie laughs along with them like his lungs aren’t burning up in his chest. 

Bev made herself known throughout the week, maybe more so than usual. Once Richie told Stan during lunch that Monday, Stan did the same thing. Casual texts came through a little more. Richie found one or both of them waiting by his locker several times. Neither of them asks about Eddie, not after Monday when it became clear that nothing was going to change. They just stay with him, a silent force of impenetrable love and protection. Not that Richie needs protection, per se, but he does appreciate the sentiment. To have his friends stand by him and with him is unparalleled.  

Sometimes he sees Eddie in his entirety. He’s standing at his locker on in the hall or in the parking lot. Just standing there; a lifeless, emotionless body. They don’t speak. They don’t interact. Eddie lets his shame shadow his face and turns tail to run. Richie lets his anger cloud his eyes and doesn’t bother approaching the situation. It’s best to let bygones be bygones and not stir the pot, substantially because this pot is boiling like a madman. Stirring it could easily mean getting burned and Richie doesn’t need any more fire in his life. 

Which is why, by the time Friday rolls around, he's surprised to see Eddie march up to his locker. He doesn’t say anything at first. For a moment, he just stands in front of Richie with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. There is a tight tension in his shoulders and he looks like he’s clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth are going to disintegrate from the pressure. He looks absolutely, positively uncomfortable and for a moment Richie isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t know if Eddie is going to punch him in the face or scream at him or cry. They just stand there, bathing in silence until they both feel like they’re suffocating from it all. 

“There’s a party at Peter Gordon’s house tonight,” Eddie says. It comes out quick and quiet and Richie almost doesn’t catch it all. He only really processes the words Peter and party and tonight and he relies on his brain to fill in the rest of the blanks. This momentary lapse of processing makes him pause entirely. He stops taking books out of his locker, stops shifting his weight from foot to foot, stops breathing. Everything just stands still between them, frozen in awkward discomfort until Eddie says, “All the guys are coming. You should come, too.”

By now, Richie’s mouth has caught up with his brain. He doesn’t even look at Eddie when he says, “Now why would I do that?”

This stops Eddie cold in his tracks. From the corner of his eye, Richie can see the gears turning in Eddie’s head. He can see the absolute dumbfounded expression he’s now wearing. “Because I invited you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Richie scoffs. He closes his locker with a bang and turns to face Eddie, looking him directly in the eye. “We both know I’m not really welcome at that party.”

“But,” Eddie starts back but stops, trailing off at the gears continue to turn. Now that Richie’s looking at him dead on he can see that Eddie looks nervous, timid almost. He’s got a guilty look on his face that says he knows exactly why Richie’s acting so cold. Still, he doesn’t give in. “I invited you. And you can bring whoever you want.”

Richie just hums for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling Eddie with the driest look he can manage. Sure, he may be a huge fucking clown but that doesn’t mean he’s not ready to square up when he needs to. “You also pushed me. You also –”

“I’m sorry!” Eddie cries. It’s not loud, but there’s a frantic kind of emotion behind it that cuts Richie off mid-sentence as if he desperately wants to stop Richie from saying the words they’re both thinking. “I didn’t mean it. I just –” he starts and stops a few times, eyes huge and apologetic and glassy. His words are rushed and soft and barely understandable but he pushes on anyway. “I didn’t mean to hurt you and I feel really, really bad about it. I was a dick and I’m sorry. None of the other guys think of you like that.  _ I _ don’t think of you like that! I promise. I’m sorry. You’ve gotta forgive me.” He trails off at the end, voice going quiet against the drum of the hallway. 

It’s not as satisfying as Richie wants it to be. He wants Eddie’s words to seal the fissure that formed down the length of his spine, but they don’t. Eddie’s words now won’t make his words from last week disappear. They can’t take away what happened and they sure as hell can’t make Richie forget the stinging bruise on his shoulder blade. 

He wants to tell Eddie to fuck off. He wants to push him away and give him a piece of his mind, tell him that he’s not welcome in his life anymore. Never come to his locker again. Never teach him a new technique again. Never touch him or talk to him or look at him ever fucking again. He wants to hate Eddie Kaspbrak with all of his being. 

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t say any of that or do any of that or feel any of that. For some reason, he can’t. Most of the fight drains out of him. Most of the anger and resentment and bitterness does, too, because Eddie is standing in front of him looking genuinely apologetic. And it doesn’t fix everything but it helps. Just a little bit. 

“Please come tonight,” Eddie says. His voice cracks at the end and Richie can’t help but notice  the way Eddie’s lower lip catches between his teeth.  

And after a moment’s pause, Richie answers, “I’ll think about it.”

It’s not a yes. It’s not a promise. It’s a solid maybe and it’s the most he can do right now. Because part of him does want to go. This is his team after all. 

Eddie gives him a small, hopeful smile and then walks off. Richie watches him go, watches him turn around and head to wherever it is he’s going. Further down the way, he meets up with Ben and they turn the corner. It makes Richie idly wonder who’s going to be there tonight. Is Ben? It’s sure as fuck going to be more than just the baseball team because Peter Gordon doesn’t even play baseball, he plays football. Which means… fuck. This is probably going to be some high school jock fest, isn’t it?

The rattling sound of his head hitting the locker mixes with a heavy sigh he lets out. Not once in his entire life did he envision himself at a high school party. The only images he has of them are the mental ones he’s crafted from media and bad eighties movies: thumping music, broken vases, and flashing lights. Richie is not the type of boy to be invited to these parties. He’s always been a  _ fly under the radar  _ kind of guy, not a  _ let’s fuck someone’s parent’s house up  _ kind of guy. It just hasn’t been appealing. 

Peter Gordon, though. Isn’t Peter friends with Mike? They play together so at the very least they’re associated. And Mike is friends with Eddie, who is going to the party. So now Mike has two associations. 

While Richie does this mental math, he quickly forms a somewhat conniving plan in his head. Some music, a little bit of alcohol, and two infatuated boys? Sounds like a recipe for love. A little bit of potion making, a little bit of meddling in romantic affairs. Stan will thank him later, he always does. 

He spends the entirety of his first block class scheming. He had sent a quick text to Jake to grab the actual details of the affair and drifted off into another universe while his teacher droned on about chloroplast and the citric acid cycle. He honestly couldn’t care less about that. There are more important issues at hand right now, like what Stan is going to wear to impress his favorite hunk of smoking man. Tease those curls a little bit, French tuck that button up. Stan will be irresistible. 

All he has to do is get him to agree. 

The second the bell rings, Richie is out of his seat. He doesn’t even bother snagging his calculus book from his locker before he runs over to the room. He perches his ass right in the chair directly behind Stan’s and waits with bated breath. In the time it takes Stan to walk into the room, Richie has scrawled a messy note onto a sheet of spiral bound paper and placed it haphazardly on top of the desk. Stan isn’t fazed; if anything, he’s more wary of Richie’s change in assigned seating than he is of the note. 

It reads:  _ Will you go to the party with me? Check yes or no _ .

Predictably, Stan checks  _ no  _ before gingerly folding the paper and chucking it back at Richie. 

“Come on!” Richie whines, “It’s going to be a  _ blast _ . How could you possibly pass up the positively  _ divine  _ high school cliché?”

He can feel the way Stan rolls his eyes without seeing his face. “It sounds like a  _ positive  _ waste of time. Since when are you interested in parties, anyway?”

“I’m not,” Richie states dryly. He earns an equally dry look in return from Stan before saying, “But I am interested in seeing what happens when you and Hanlon are in the same room for more than two seconds without structured discussion.”

“And what room would that be,” comes from behind him. A velvety smooth voice full of devious curiosity. 

“Bev, no,” Stan tries but it’s too late. She’s occupied his seat before he even has the chance to sit down. 

“Bev,  _ yes,” _ Richie croons right back and he already knows he’s won. “There’s a party tonight. Stan is coming –”

“– I never said that –”

“– are you in?”

“What kind of question is that?” The look in her eyes screams mischief and it’s over. They’re done. There is no more discussion to be had. Stan resigns with a rather indignant huff of air and collapses into a seat that is not his. The look on his face is unamused, a faint blush creeping up the collar of his shirt and tinting the space beneath his eyes. Bev looks the picture opposite. She is absolutely thrilled, managing to gush out a loose plan for their outfits before the teacher separates them.  

They’ll meet at Stan’s house and Richie and Bev will tag team him, making sure he’s dressed to the fives because this is a house party, not the Met Gala. Stan just groans and knocks Bev’s shoulder as she gets out of his seat. 

For Richie, class passes as quick as ever. It’s relieving to have something to look forward to. The itching in his veins is less today than it has been any other and it’s liberating. The shakiness in his hands isn’t completely gone, but it’s dimmed. His mind drifts to the rowdy evening they’re bound to have together. The three of them, partners in crime. A real Three Musketeers, they are, always feeding off of each other. 

Richie manages to get Stan into the most leisure outfit he can. He brings over a selection of his nicer, more muted button up shirts and forces Stan into a few of them. He ends up going with a white shirt that has black records printed all over it on top of khakis and converse high tops. He looks good, all things considered, even though he grumbles about it the entire time. 

Bev has a pair of black jeans on. They’re high waisted and compliment every single feature on her body. On top she has a red crop top sweater and has several long, dangly necklaces hanging from her neck. She’s also got a number of rings on her fingers, one of which she takes off and slides onto Richie’s pinky. She offers no explanation other than a smile. Her black high heeled boots boost her up a few inches, putting her almost at eye level with Richie. 

Richie himself is dressed in a black shirt with his bomber on top. Jean and Nikes are his go to, and his hair rests around his ears instead of in a bun. All things considered, he’s the most underdressed of his entire friend group. The difference between him and them, though, is that he’s not trying to impress anyone. 

They dawdle for an hour or two, shooting the shit – 

_ “How many gumdrops do you think I can fit in my mouth?” _

_ “Maybe two hundred if we cut your tongue out.” _

_ “What even is a gum drop?” _

– and forcing Stan to try on each and every one of the outfits Richie brought over for him –

_ “This is hideous. How have you not been shot on sight in this thing?” _

_ “You should be grateful. Who would take you around to all the hot spots in town if I were gone?” _

_ “No one. I’d finally have some peace and quiet around here.” _

_ “He’s just mad that he doesn’t look as hot as you in those overalls.” _

– until he’s practically begging them to leave already. The lesser of two evils, y’know?

The music is damn near deafening when they walk through the door. Richie leads with Stan sandwiched between him and Bev to prevent a last second escape and when Richie turns around, he can see Stan shrinking back slightly against the sheer volume of the sound. Richie can’t quite place the song, but it reverberates in his chest at a steady tempo. Part of him wants to hate it but there’s something about the echo of the beat with his own pounding heart that’s captivating. It draws him further in and he feels Stan grab tightly onto his arm as they push through the living room and into the kitchen. 

The sheer mass of people is overwhelming at first. It’s as if all of Derry got invited to this party somehow. The living room is crammed with bodies like wiggling sardines in a can, all attempting to do some ass backwards dance to the latest music north of New York. A weird mix of bass and whistling comes over the speakers but Richie only catches the words  _ Ay, Panini, don’t you be a meanie  _ before he slips through the archway into the kitchen. The sound immediately dampens and he can feel Stan’s sigh of relief against his back. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, detaching himself from between Richie and Bev and straightening his shirt out. “I can’t believe you guys convinced me to come.”

Bev’s hand comes up and she presses a finger over Stan’s lips. “Stan, baby, lighten up.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Bev probably says something but Richie tunes it out in favor of mixing them each a drink. He hasn’t done this too often but he knows that the ratio of alcohol to mixer needs to be light so they don’t have to taste too much of the burn. Stan doesn’t like the way vodka tastes going down straight. They once decided to swipe a bottle of his father’s Grey Goose and he has distinct memories of Stan leaning out of his second story window retching into the bushes below. 

Sprite and cherry vodka, though? The right balance and Stan won’t even taste it. Stan gets about half as much as Richie and Bev do. This is done for two reasons: first, Stan is about half Richie’s size and Bev has double the tolerance of both of them and; second, a placebo effect is all they need tonight. Stan doesn’t really need to get drunk, he just needs to think his inhibitions are lowered. Liquid courage and all that jazz. 

The bickering simmers down the second Richie turns around with two cups in hand. He hands them to each of his friends before grabbing his own and raising it up. “To wetting Stan’s dick.”

“I’m not toasting to that,” Stan fucking  _ grumbles  _ while Bev practically cackles in the background. Toast or no toast, they all take a drink and judging by the look on Stan’s face, Richie’s done good with his mixology. 

“C’mon, boys. We have other boys to find.” Bev says, stepping between them and linking her arms through theirs. 

“Plural?” Stan asks and Bev smirks, leading them to the door on the other side of the kitchen. 

They end up in what looks like a second living room and Richie idly wonders how much money Peter Gordon comes from because this is a really nice house. There are large, oak bookcases lining the walls of the room they’re in and the fireplace is pristine. It looks like it’s never been used a day in its life. What a fucking waste. On the shelves of the bookcases are some books and pictures. Classics, Richie thinks as he moves through the room. They’re more like decorations than actual well-loved books. Status symbols. Declarations.

The pictures are of Peter and his family and in them, Richie learns he has a younger brother. Much younger, by the looks of it if these pictures are current. They’re all dressed up in white and the man Richie can only assume is Mr. Gordon is wearing an ascot tied around his neck. His mother is adorned in simple pearls and her dress is immaculate. Everything about them screams wealth. 

Yeah, it’s West Broadway but he’s never actually been inside of one of these ritzy houses before. He really didn’t know what to expect and, standing here, the attitudes kind of make sense. Gretta and Peter and all of those snobs with their noses in the air, they make his stomach turn a little bit. 

In this second living room Richie sees groups of their classmates cliqued off. While the first room had two couches pressed against the far wall, this room has a long table in the center with a rather intense game of beer pong going on. There is one group of kids watching the game and cheering for either team and there are some sitting by the fireplace, chatting and laughing and drinking the night away. 

It’s still early, which means there’s plenty of time to raise hell. Hell, in this case, just so happens to come in the form of one Edward Kaspbrak, who has unfortunately noticed the three of them as they walked into the room. Richie hadn’t noticed Eddie at first, his back turned as he faces the pong table, but Eddie catches sight of him and jogs over. 

“Richie,” Eddie says and his surprise shows in his eyes the same way it shows in his gaping mouth. “You came.”

There’s a short pause in the air, then. Both Bev and Stan glance between Richie and Eddie before Richie finally answers, “Yeah, well.”

“I, uhm – I’m glad.” Eddie barks and there’s a stutter to his voice. His eyes are a hint wider than normal as he looks over the three of them. It’s clear that he doesn’t know what to say but his smile is warm and genuine. “You’ve already found the drinks?” He points to their cups and they nod before he continues, “Cool. Well, post up anywhere that you’re comfortable.”

“Kaspbrak, you’re next!” Someone calls from the table. 

Eddie turns to wave them off, calling out, “I don’t have a partner,” before he looks back at Richie. He looks like he’s about to say something, mouth halfway open but his voice gets caught when someone slings an arm around his shoulder. 

Turns out that the voice belonged to the one and only Bill Denbrough and, standing just beyond Eddie was his entire crew. Luckily for them, it included two of the boys they were looking for. Unluckily for them, it included the two Richie was hoping to avoid. “Why don’t you team up with Tozier, here?” Bill asks. 

He’s got a snapback on and a sly grin on his face that screams for attention. His eyes are those of snakes and Richie can’t fucking stand him. However, before he has the chance to speak up Bev is talking on his behalf. “Only if Stan and I get to play them.” 

Bill considers it for a moment but Mike calls out from behind, “Sounds like a stellar match, if you ask me.” Ben nods and then suddenly Richie has a pong ball shoved into his hand and he’s standing opposite Stan and Bev. 

Ben, Mike, and Bill all stand as rowdy observers, cheering loudly even though the first ball has yet to be thrown. Stan looks just as out of place as Richie feels while Bev and Eddie negotiate the rules of the table. Despite his punkish appearance and attitude, Richie has never played a game of pong in his life. He tells Eddie as much before the first throw and Eddie just gives him simple directions. Ninety-degree angle with his elbow out front, push forward, and flick the wrist. Like throwing a baseball, but from in front of his body instead of behind. 

Eddie goes first and the middle cup on the left edge gets sunk. Richie’s next but with no luck. Both Bev and Stan sink their cups and get the balls returned to them. Richie shouts something about beginners’ luck. On the return throw they both miss. The crowd of three goes wild. 

Eddie raises his arm and closes one eye. Richie’s watching him, taking in the technique and noticing the small details in the way Eddie throws. His elbow really does stay still. It’s all in the flick of the wrist and it makes him want to scream because it just takes him back to that day in the gym. A good memory tainted sour. Before he can ruminate for too long, though, Eddie sinks another cup and says, “I really am glad you came,” low enough for just Richie to hear him. 

Richie doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say back so he just raises his arm and tries to copy the way Eddie threw. He bounces off the rim, instead. He takes a drink from his cup, feeling the warmth pool at the bottom of his stomach and send waves of heat to his face and hands. 

Stan sinks his cup and Mike cheers loudly. He reaches over the table and gives Stan a high five, clasping his hand the second they make contact and doing some weird bro handshake. Stan looks both confused and delighted. Bev misses and her groan can he heard throughout the house. Ben assures her though, tells her she’ll get it next time. She sticks her tongue out at him playfully. Bill, thankfully, favors no player and just screams as much as he wants whenever he wants. Right now, it’s his single redeeming quality because he cheers even when Richie misses. He’s like a puppy, right now. He doesn’t care about what’s happening, he’s just thrilled to be there. It’s a side of him Richie’s never seen before. 

Across the table, Mike has come to stand directly next to Stan on the other side. The exchange words every few minutes, Stan’s face going a hint pinker every single time. Richie’s ego inflates to the size of a 16th century 6 bedroom castle and it makes him feel the arrogance of a king and the bravery of a knight as he tosses another ball toward their red targets. 

The game goes on like that for a while. Some turns, there is only one cup that comes off the table. Other turns, no cups come off. Richie doesn’t sink his first cup until well into the game when more than half of their own cups are cleared and Bev and Stan still have a healthy looking rack. He sinks the middle back cup and everyone all but loses their minds, Richie included. Eddie’s arms come strong around his shoulder and even though Richie has a good foot of height on him, it’s still somehow comfortable. 

“What a fucking shot!” Eddie cries and it’s all downhill from there. Eddie and Richie manage to get two ball returns in a row, sinking a total of four of their nine remaining cups. Bev cries about hustling but Richie just shrugs and smirks. He downs the rest of his cup as Stan sinks another cup. 

Water is spilled onto the table in small, segregated puddles from the splash of the balls. Cups are lined up one by one as they’re knocked out of the running. Clenched fists rest on the white of the tabletop and eyes bore down the enemy sides. 

After about ten more minutes of gameplay they’re tied. Down to one cup each, there has never been a more nail biting moment in Richie’s life. Baseball aside, this is downright exhilarating. Richie is so focused, so honed in on this game. He can’t think of anything else, can’t even count the number of times they all miss the shot they’re begging for. Bev is practically hanging off of Stan, all of their drinks gone with the wind as the seconds tick on. Stan throws and misses. Bev throws and misses. Eddie throws. 

And misses. 

It goes on for hours, it feels. This constant cycle of bouncy ball in which no one is accomplishing anything. The pressure is high, the tension is thick. And Richie raises his arm to nail the ball down the table. His brings his arm up, elbow bent at an angle and one eye closed. He moves like a well oiled machine, his arm never leaving its position as he flicks his wrist. The ball sails. And sails. And sails. 

And it hits the rim of the cup once. Twice. It spins along the inside and Bev isn’t quick enough to blow it out because suddenly it’s sitting in the water, buoyed and proud. 

“We have redemption!” Bev screams but it’s lost to the sounds of everyone else’s voice. Ben, Bill, and Mike all have their hands in their hair and dumb looks on their face as they cheer and jump and point. Stan looks exhausted but relieved for it to be over, so when he shoots his shot it misses by a mile. Mike wraps his arm tight around Stan’s shoulders, shaking him gently and whispering something encouraging into his ear, no doubt. 

Bev’s shot is futile, too, and they all scream louder. Eddie is on Richie in a second, arms wrapping around his waist. Richie feels his own feet lift off the ground in a spinning motion, the room of the house becoming one big blur before he touches back down. The wind of being spun has his hair all wild but he doesn’t care. The adrenaline of the game has lifted all of his abilities to give a shit up and threw them out the window. Eddie’s hands burn where they’re wrapped around him but they’re gone quick enough, replaced by a foot of dense air.

The two of them stare at each other for a moment, smiles wide and threatening to break their faces in half. “Great game, Rich,” Eddie says and Richie beams for a moment, before reaching his hand out to shake Eddie’s. 

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Richie smiles and something brief flashes across Eddie’s face. It’s unnamable but if Richie had to try, he’d call it relief. “Can I get you a drink?”

Eddie nods and the group of them make their way back to the drink station. Richie is about to start taking requests, but Bill steps forward and insists. He mixes seven different cocktails, each customized to the customers wishes. Stan and Bev want something fruity. Mike wants whiskey, Eddie wants rum, and Ben just wants a beer. Richie will take whatever Bill’s having. Big mistake, though, because the second he takes a sip he almost chokes. The taste of vodka shines bright through the drink and Bill just nods his head and tips his cup before taking a drink himself. 

Well, fuck. Richie knows a challenge when he sees one and fucking hell if he isn’t a wuss. The competitive nature inside of him flares wildly so he tips back again and takes another liberal drink. It burns, but Bill just nods and smiles so Richie does the same.

Friendly competition. Yeah. Sure. Whatever. 

Without a word, Bill disappears into the other room. He’s got a bounce in his step and his eye on someone from the cheerleading team and Richie watches him go. It leaves the six of them in the kitchen together and Richie expects it to be some kind of awkward and tense but it’s not. Bev naturally drifts to Ben and asks him about how his track season is going. Mike manages to interact with everyone in the group while Stan makes googly eyes at him and Eddie just nods. 

He’s got some kind of look on his face, something that reads both apprehension and calm as he sips his drink. Richie isn’t sure what’s in it but it looks good. It must taste good, too, because Eddie sucks it down in a matter of fifteen minutes. Richie sips his own drink gently but persistently, chasing the feeling of comfort and bravery and fun. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that I was the only one brave enough to stick my hands in the trash can!” he cries after another half hour. They’ve moved into the beer pong room and are posted up by the fireplace, Stan sitting close to Mike and Bev tucked snug under Ben’s arm. 

“Yeah, but literally no one asked you to do that,” Bev says.

Stan follows with, “That’s not an admirable quality,” and the group busts out into laughter. Richie laughs along with them, too, recounting the way he dug his geometry notebook out of the trashcan in the cafe after accidentally throwing it out. It was ruined, but he still insists it was worth it. 

The look Eddie gives him is absolutely horrified and he gags a little bit through his own laughter. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“You better believe it,” Richie says, “Some things might change, but this boy doesn’t!”

Eddie gives him a distant look and a faraway smile as he says, “Yeah, I fucking hope not.”

Before Richie can reply, the bass end of a piano rings out through the house and a sultry give no shits kind of voice asks  _ why men great until they gotta be great? _

 “Oh my god!” Bev’s voice jumps several octaves and she latches her arm onto Richie’s. “We have to go dance. Right now!”

Richie is helpless to her and so is Ben. They nearly trip over their own feet as they’re dragged into the room with the loudest music. He glances back to catch Stan’s nervous eyes following them out of the room but he stays put, Mike looking amused by his side. 

“I just took a DNA test, turns out I'm 100% that bitch!” Bev screams and she somehow manages to sound angelic as she jumps up and down. She shakes her head to the beat in a way that makes her read hair flow around her like a fire and Richie is just as captivated by it as every other person in the room. 

Ben laughs as she grabs his hands and continues her weird jumping chicken dance. It’s clear that he doesn’t have a rhythmic bone in his body but the way he tries is endearing. 

She looks at Richie and sings, “So you can tell your friend, "shoot your shot" when you see him. It's OK, he already in my DMs,” all while pointing at Ben and laughing. Ben turns a delightful shade of red but his smile never leaves, especially when Bev turns from Richie and throws her arms around Ben. 

She effectively turns their dancing triangle into two point line and Richie takes that as his cue to back off a little bit. She’s still swaying in a ridiculous motion to the beat of the song, but it becomes something much more personal. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol in their veins or the tension finally breaking, but he can sense this might be the end of a stalemate. The beginning of something fresh and new and them. 

Richie manages to slip through the crowd and back toward the room where he left the others. Eddie is gone, but Stan and Mike are still there. They’re still there, but the conversation looks more hushed. Stan’s eyes are bright and the smile on his face is all consuming. Mike looks thoroughly interested, his hand coming up to tug gently on the corner of Stan’s collar. By the time Richie makes it over to them he can hear Mike saying, “This is a new look on you.”

Richie throws himself between the two of them, wrapping on arm around each of their shoulders. “Yes, a Tozier original. Do you like it Mikey boy?”

Mike’s hand comes up to loosely hold onto Richie’s wrist as he says, “I do, actually. I think Stan could pull most looks off, though.”

Stan smiles at the ground for a second before he says, “Yeah, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in most of what Richie wears.”

“You wound me, Stan!” Richie says and he lets his knees go out slightly. The grip Mike has on his wrist tightens to keep him from falling and that deep Mike Hanlon laugh reverberates throughout the kitchen. 

“Watch yourself, Richie. I think Stan wouldn’t hesitate,” Mike says. 

“He’s right Richie. I won’t hesitate, bitch.” Stan cuts quick and Richie throws his entire body back as he shakes with laughter. 

“Okay, okay. I need another drink, anyway. You two kids have fun in here. Too much fun, if you know what I mean.” Richie says with a wink and he detaches himself from Mike. He grabs his cup from where he left it on the fireplace ledge and drinks the last quarter of it, sighing happily at the two of them and then turning on his heel. 

He doesn’t get another drink. The heat from Bill’s concoction is still burning bright in his stomach so he moves through the kitchen and back toward the impromptu dance floor. He ends up on the other side of the living room from Bev and Ben but that’s okay. The music still flows through him and even though he doesn’t know the words, he still feels it inside. 

It makes him sway hazily back and forth to the beat. His eyes close and he tips his head back, colors passing over the backs of his eyelids to the flow of the music. There’s something wonderful about dancing that he’s never been willing to deny himself. No matter what, he’s always able to detach himself from reality and move to the music in ways he can’t move in his real life. People don’t just walk around swaying back and forth and feeling like something magical has passed through them. If they did, it wouldn’t be special anymore. The commonplace becomes mundane. He would much rather find this from time to time than always. 

When he opens his eyes again he’s met with a shifting sea of sweat and bodies and drunk. Bev and Ben look cozy, dancing together on the far end of the room. Others are pressed together in more obscene ways. They grind and drink and holler and some even kiss. The motions are entrancing, capturing Richie into something hypnotizing and he knows he should look away instead of voyeur, but he can’t help it. It’s captivating, the way two people fall into each other as if the world doesn’t exist. 

Others, like Richie, dance alone. They have no one to fall into and no arms to encircle their bodies. They just let the music consume them, no matter the tempo or beat or song. They just move, swaying their hips and raising their arms and twisting their torso. Richie’s own head falls back for a moment, taking in the decorative ceiling fan and swirl patterned finish on the ceiling. He lingers until the twisting motion of the plaster threatens to make him sick before looking back out at the crowd. Beyond the bodies, Richie can see Eddie. He’s not quite dancing, but he’s not standing still either. He’s alone in a sea of people, gently swaying. 

They catch eyes for a second and Richie almost wants to go over to him, but he doesn’t. He just keeps dancing to the beat, eyes zoning in and out of the motion before him. He can’t keep eyes on Eddie for long, not with the alcohol bleeding into his veins and his already thin attention span weaning. Eventually, he disappears. 

The song switches to something faster, something with a harder beat and Richie switches, too. He starts bouncing up and down, eyes fall closed again and arms moving up into the air. He recognizes the sound of Pink’s voice echoes through the house. He’s always loved her. She doesn’t give a shit about anything but at the same time she cares about everything. She creates such meaningful music, things that touch on the everyday feelings of life and love and adulthood; things Richie has never dreamed of experiencing yet but almost looks forward to. She bears her entire soul for the world to hear, for him to hear. And her voice sounds like rough satin. A startlingly amazing contradiction. 

He isn’t sure how long he’s dancing but like all good things, he’s interrupted. Not by anyone else, though. By his own daunting need to take a piss. It’s been building for a while now but he’s been ignoring it, unwilling to break the seal. However, when he cracks his eyes open and sees the clock read past midnight, he knows he probably should. The night won’t be here forever, so he might as well take a leak when he has to. 

His vision swims a little bit as he walks and he’s sure he’s stumbling, but he doesn’t care. The alcohol has really hit him and he’s glad he didn’t make another drink. There’s nothing like walking the fine line between just drunk enough and too drunk, as if he’s on the precipice of something that could be awful, but isn’t. 

The bottom floor of the house is pretty circular, so he doesn’t have issues finding the first bathroom. What he does have an issue with, however, is the startling amount of people waiting in line. Patience has never been a virtue of his, especially not in situations like this, and he knows that there’s another floor so there logically has to be another bathroom. People on West Broadway could certainly afford a house with two bathrooms, yeah? Yeah. 

So he sets off. The hallway at the top of the stairs is completely empty and a distant voice in the back of his head remembers someone telling him that upstairs was off limits but who fucking cares man. It’s not like he’s going to break into Peter’s parent’s bedroom and steal their fine china or something. He’s just got to take a leak and the line downstairs is criminal. And there’s no way in  _ hell  _ he’s exposing Little Richie to the midnight chill. No fucking way. 

There’s a door at the very end of the hallway, two doors on the right, and two doors on the left. Even as the world gently sways beneath him he walks forward. This is a mission, god dammit. He’s got to whiz and nothing is going to stop him. 

He starts with the first door on the right, twisting the knob and pushing it open a little bit. It's dark inside but he can tell the room is huge, way too big to be a bathroom – not even one of those big fancy ones with the hot-tub bathtub things that people on this side of town probably own. 

Either way, no toilet and no bathtub which means he’s got to keep going. There’s a door almost directly across the hall. Might as well work his way down, right? No reason for him to go all the way down and then come all the way back, so he crosses the hall and pushes the door open. 

This time, instead of a dark, empty room he’s met with blinding white light. It fucking burns his retinas out of their sockets and makes him rip off his glasses and cover his face with his arm, letting out an offended noise at the sheer fucking audacity this room has on being so bright. Who said that was okay, huh? Who gave this specific room permission to be as bright as the god damn sun? It probably knew Richie was making his way upstairs so it powered on its lights to brightness levels of infinity and waited with baited breath for its victim to blindly saunter in. And how he was paying for it now, eyes practically watering at the adjustment. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, feet finding purchase on tiles that are clean – too clean for his beat up Nikes. He’s just about to raise his other arm to find the light switch and power off the fucking sun when he hears someone make a startled gasp. Someone’s in here with him?

Wait – why is someone standing in the sun? Where is he, anyway?

Slowly, he lowers his arm from his face. His eyes almost scream at him, begging to be shrouded in darkness again. Or at the very least something dimmer than the hell he’s standing in right now. He blinks through it, letting the blurs clear from his vision and the colors melt from neon lava into their regular, everyday hues. 

As everything begins to bleed into regularity he can see someone standing in front of him. Their posture is hunched, arms supporting their entire upper body over the sink. God, they’re practically curled in on themselves. Richie can’t make them out entirely, colors fading back to normal but images still a smudge on his eyes without his glasses. 

Still, though. He’d have to be dumb as bricks to not know who was standing in front of him. They stand in silence for a moment, the two of them trying to process what’s going on. It takes Richie’s brain a solid five seconds longer than normal to process everything around him so by the time the realization fully kicks in it’s too late to run.

They both stand stock still in the bathroom light. At one point or another, Richie isn’t sure, he slips his glasses back on and the world explodes into clarity. Eddie isn’t looking at him, he’s got his eyes trained down on the porcelain bowl in front of him. His hair hangs lightly in his face and his shoulders are curved into his body. The jacket that usually makes him look invincible looks like a shell surrounding him. God, he just looks so small. So… touchable. 

Well, not touchable but, fuck. Richie can’t think right now. He could hardly see a minute ago; how the hell is he supposed to think?

He sways on his feet slightly, grabbing the doorknob for stability and reassurance before he coughs once. He’s not sure if he does it out of impulse or to get Eddie’s attention or to ease some of the building awkwardness in the room but Eddie ignores him. He just keeps looking down, scrunches his eyes up, even. It’s almost like he’s praying that Richie leaves the room. Richie can feel it somewhere inside of him, Eddie’s willpower asking him to get the fuck out, please for the love of god. 

Richie, naturally, does not get the fuck out. Partially because he’s had just enough alcohol that he doesn’t give a shit and partially because he’s here for a reason and that reason is not to harass Eddie. It’s to piss. 

“I, uh,” he starts and then stops. For some reason, he feels silly. Not silly in the fun and stupid kind of way, but silly in the stupid and meaningless kind of way. Twelve hours ago, Eddie had begged him to come to this stupid fucking party; two hours ago, they’d talk and laughed a little bit and maybe,  _ maybe _ , had some fun; and now, Eddie won’t even look at him again. And here he is, about to ask Eddie to please maybe vacate this bathroom so Richie can politely take a leak. 

“What?” Eddie asks. It’s not aggressive like Richie was expecting it to be. Eddie isn’t waving his arms and screaming and asking Richie what he’s doing here. It’s more curious. Confused, almost. Like he wants to make sure he heard Richie right but that doesn’t make any sense because Richie didn’t even say anything intelligible. The end of the word lifts up into a soft, desperately inquisitive tone. 

At the same time he says it, Eddie turns his head ever so slightly to Richie and Richie gets caught in that gray thunderstorm. His eyes – they’re so tumultuous. They’re red rimmed and unfocused and so far away. Eddie’s not even in this bathroom right now, is he? No, he’s somewhere distant, somewhere he probably doesn’t want to be right now. Anything Richie might have said goes out the second story window and into the dirt because he can’t think when he’s looking into those eyes. Not like this. 

The rest of Eddie’s face, the parts Richie doesn’t see until approximately five or ten seconds later, is a blotchy red. His cheeks are shining in the bathroom light and his lips are a deep red. They’re swollen and Richie thinks that if they get any redder, any bigger, they’re going to pop like a big red balloon at the fair. It’s like Eddie’s been chewing on them and if he’s not careful, he’s going to chew right on through them. 

The sight of it strikes something right through Richie’s body. Their eyes are locked and Richie is cemented right in the seam where the carpet meets the bathroom tile and he can’t move, can’t speak as he looks at Eddie’s withering form. It’s nothing like the last time they were alone. There is no jovial feeling marked by disruptive fear and pain. There is only them and this overwhelming, sinking feeling of despair and confusion. Why is Eddie upstairs, locked away in this bathroom and crying? What on Earth happened?

Richie doesn’t really know what to do at this point, so he says the only three words that come to his blank mind. “Are you okay?”

Eddie sniffles in response and turns his face away, back toward the bowl of the sink. His head hangs almost lifelessly between his shoulders before they start to shake. Richie just watches him, emotions mixed somewhere between fascination and concern. 

_ Vulnerable _ , he thinks. That’s the word he couldn’t find before. Eddie looks so fucking  _ vulnerable  _ right now with his shaking shoulders and slumped body and his rheumy eyes. 

After a few seconds where Richie is absolutely sure Eddie has resumed his crying into the sink, he hears something that doesn’t quite make sense to him. Maybe he’s too drunk or maybe his hearing is shit or maybe he’s somehow been transported into another dimension because he swears to god he hears a giggle. Or maybe it’s a chuckle, he’s not sure, but he swears he hears it. 

But then Eddie suddenly isn’t bent over anymore. He’s standing and has thrown his entire head back and is laughing, fucking laughing, into the air above him. The sound of it echoes and bounces off of the tiles and the walls and the glass shower door but it’s so empty, so hollow. There’s nothing inside of that laugh because cynicism and maybe a hint of something else, something darker. Richie can’t place it right now. He’s not sure if he wants to. 

“Am I okay?” Eddie repeats, voice still high and tight from his mania. “Am I okay?”

When he turns to Richie his eyes are wide and his eyebrows are shot up as far as they can go. There’s a smile stretching across his face but it looks plastic and fake and borderline insane. Richie can’t help the way he steps back into the doorframe, reaches behind himself to clutch it and steady his balance. Eddie looks like he might snap at any moment. Any move Richie makes could be his last. The tension in the room is thick and unpredictable and raw. He doesn’t run, though. He just stands pressed against the doorway with his eyes locked onto Eddie. 

For a moment, neither of them moves. Eddie just looks at Richie, eyes wild and body shaking until finally,  _ finally _ , he relaxes. It comes slow at first, but once the first wave hits his shoulders slump back down and his eyes fall back into that hazy grey Richie is used to. His entire body falls back, too, and his ass lands on the toilet seat with a loud  _ thunk _ . Whatever fight that had been inside of him drained out just as fast as it filled. 

“I’m sorry,” he says and his voice has fallen, too. It’s no longer that high pitched livewire; instead, it’s drained and heavy. 

“It’s okay,” Richie whispers back because, in a way, it is. Once he’s sure that Eddie isn’t going to round on his and toss him out of the window, he takes another step into the bathroom. “Are you okay, though?”

“Yeah, I just –” he stops, voice cutting off mid-word. His body bends in even further, his head falling into his hands with his elbows resting on his knees. Richie watches his shoulders rise and fall with each breath. “It’s hot in here. Are you hot? I feel like I’m burning alive.”

What? That in no way answered Richie’s question. Nothing about that made any sense, nor was he expecting it. Eddie persists though, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the edge of the bathtub. Richie just stares at him, dumbfounded and confused and lost because he has no idea what’s happening in here. Eddie is a whirlwind of emotions and unpredictability, crying and laughing and shrugging his jacket off all in the same breath. 

He can’t help the way his curiosity burns him, though. 

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Eddie’s response comes much quicker this time, like he’s ready for whatever Richie throws at him. Like he knew it was coming and he was ready to deflect but boy howdy does Eddie have another thing coming. Because Richie can read that riot act up and down and Eddie’s got nothing on him. Richie invented the game of lying through his teeth to get people to leave him alone. 

Eddie? He’s on some level one apprentice type shit. 

“Don’t bullshit me, Eds.”

Honestly, if Richie had been any more sober he knows he wouldn’t have asked Eddie so straightforward. He would not have been so blunt. He would have remembered the pang of fear in his chest. He would have remembered the knots in his shoulders.

He doesn’t, though. All he remembers is right now. Eddie is in front of him and he’s upset and he’s fucking  _ lying  _ through his teeth as if Richie can’t tell the difference. Which, in all honesty, is fucking laughable. 

Eddie doesn’t react for what feels like the longest five seconds in history. Seriously, this could put the anxiety of the Cold War to shame because Richie starts to feel the sweat he didn’t even know he was sweating run cold. His heartbeat starts to echo loudly in his ear, the sound of it drowning out the thumping bass from below. And Eddie just stares at him. Richie is lost at sea in those eyes, a maelstrom of emotions sucking him under the water. Stealing his breath and flooding his lungs with unnamable emotions. 

“I miss you, you know,” comes out suddenly and quickly and Richie is sure,  _ so fucking sure  _ he misheard him but the words bounce around in his brain like an echo chamber. They catch him off guard and send him reeling backwards, any and all thoughts about what he was going to do or say are gone. Floating away up, up, up until they’re out of the house. Out of the atmosphere, really. Eddie follows himself up quickly, glossing over it just in time so that Richie can’t get any words in edgewise. “Do you ever feel like your whole life is a lie?” 

Richie stumbles again. Physically, he’s standing still but mentally he’s gone with the wind, a wild tumbleweed spinning and crashing and moving across the hard desert ground. It takes another few seconds for Richie to get his bearings back and figure out what the hell Eddie just asked him because nothing has been making sense. It makes him wonder if Eddie is the one who’s being all coo coo bananas or if Richie is losing his grip on reality. 

Does he ever feel like his whole life is a lie? What does that even mean? Richie takes a breath to think about it, ponder if you will. Is Eddie’s life a lie? Well, kind of. If he thinks about it really hard, he knows Eddie’s life is a lie. But lie seems like such a harsh word because Eddie is still Eddie at the end of the day. Isn’t he? Yeah, he is. It doesn’t matter what he’s been lied to about. 

It takes Richie another second to remember and he stutters out, “You mean all that stuff with your mom?” as if he was called on to answer a question when he wasn’t really paying attention. But he is. He’s paying attention to everything. 

Eddie’s response comes quick but it still sounds choppy, equally caught off guard. “Yeah – no. Not that. Not exactly.” His voice trails off for a moment, and he looks down almost as if he’s searching for some kind of answer in the patterns on the tiled floor. “How do you know about that?” 

“Dude, everyone knows about that.” Richie offers him a loose but genuine smile. How could he not know about that? The entire fucking school knows about that. You didn’t need to be at Eddie’s freshman baseball game to know all about the moment Sonia came running onto the field,  _ screaming  _ her fucking head off about her poor son. She was sobbing, full out  _ sobbing, _ about his grass allergies, his asthma, his fragile, fragile bones. The umpires didn’t even have a chance to intervene in before Eddie stepped forward and said, voice loud and booming like a megaphone, ' _ but mommy, I don’t have asthma.' _ Oh, how she wailed. Oh, how she screamed. Oh, how Eddie didn’t take a single second of her bullshit, telling her about how he knew about the faked medical records and the payoffs to the doctors. Sonia was eventually ejected and Eddie played the game.

Or, well. That’s what Richie’s heard. The story gets bigger and bigger every year. One thing he knows for sure, though, is that Sonia never attended another one of Eddie’s games. Everyone knows the day she does will be the day Hell freezes over. 

“Right, yeah.” And then he’s gone again. It’s as if he’s slipping in and out of the moment, in and out of reality. One second, Eddie is right there in front of him looking up at him and speaking, and then the next he’s gone. 

Richie takes another step into the bathroom. He’s standing by the sink now so he turns, resting his ass on the top of the counter and taking of his weight off his feet. Instinctively, his arms cross over his chest. Somewhere along the way the air became stagnant, a little bit stifled as they both parse through their memories. In there, Richie finds the good, the bad, and the sad. It washes over him like a cold sunrise and he says, “I’m sorry,” because he is. He’s so sorry for Eddie. 

“Don’t be.” 

Richie can feel the floodgates starting to open, the loose words he didn’t know he’s been holding back threatening to spill over. He wants to reassure Eddie, wants to bring him close and protect him and take all of that pain away from him because he knows that no matter how much Eddie tries to hide it, he’s not okay. Sonia still has her claws deep in his skin and Richie hates that. He hates her so much and this broken boy sitting in front of him did not deserve half of the hand he was dealt. But Eddie is here. Just like with Stan or Bev, he wants to press in close and take it all away. His hands burrow in his shirt where they’re crossed over his chest, itching to reach out. He’s in front of him and he’s here and he’s real. Whether it’s appropriate or not, he wants to say all of this and more. He doesn’t though, he just settles for something smaller. Something stunted because Eddie is like a deer in the headlights, one wrong move and he’ll bolt.  

“I feel it, too, sometimes. Lost, I mean. Like I’m just floating along in the universe or something. I don’t think I have a purpose. Maybe my life is a lie, too, you know? At least you have baseball. I’m just on the team because it’s something to do,” he pauses to chuckle for a moment, looking up into the flowers painted on the wall. “I didn’t even think I’d make it.”

Eddie laughs back, adding his own dry chuckle that could almost be described as a scoff, before saying, “I only joined the team to prove something.” 

“Did you prove it?” Richie asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t even know what buttons he’s pushing anymore. Is he here to make Eddie feel better? Is he succeeding? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers he has to piss like a racehorse but it’s secondary to this temporary moment. 

“Yeah.” The look in Eddie’s eyes shifts briefly from stormy to foggy before they come back to the present moment, focusing in right on Richie, “I did.” 

The swelling has faded from his face, the puffiness of his cheeks reduced to a mere shadow of grief for whatever it is he lost. If Richie hadn’t been in here for so long, he wouldn’t even know Eddie was crying. 

Then, Eddie is standing. He’s got the collar of his jacket clutched in his right hand and it rests partially on the floor. The germaphobe inside of him must be muted by the alcohol, though, because he does nothing to rectify it. He just stands up, rocking slightly on his feet for a moment, and then whispers Richie’s name once. 

Richie answers with his own soft, “Yeah?” and it’s all he can manage to get out. There’s an ocean of words behind his lips threatening to spill out. They never do, though. They get trapped, blocked by the feeling of Eddie’s lips on his. 

Time is meaningless. It’s arbitrary. Seconds feel like hours and hours feel like days and none of it feels real at all. There, in that bathroom, Richie has no idea how long they’re connected. In reality, it’s probably only a second - maybe two if he’s lucky - but it feels like an hour, a year. Fuck maybe even a lifetime. It’s everything he never knew he wanted but now has. Eddies lips taste like cherry Chapstick and tears and lost memories. Could have beens. Should have beens. 

Richie kisses him back. He leans in and presses his lips against Eddies and tries to bring his hands up to wind in those golden locks, tries to deepen the desperation he’s got in his chest but he can’t. Eddie pulls back almost immediately and the world starts unwillingly turning. The look on Eddie's face is sunken and horrified and Richie doesn’t hear the way he gurgles, ' _ I have to go' _ before he pushes Richie to the side and stumbles out of the bathroom. 

Everything becomes a time warp that Richie can’t make sense of. This morning he fucking hated Eddie. He hated Eddie with every single bone in his body. An hour ago, he may not have hated him, but he sure as hell didn’t like him. Five minutes ago, he felt like they could be friends. He felt the sting of something they used to have, a bitter reminder of broken memories and bad decisions. And now, right now, he’s got the sour taste of something he didn’t know he could feel. It’s mixed with alcohol and confusion and fuck, he doesn’t know what else. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, has no clue if there’s even a word for it, but he wants more. He needs more.

Despite the haze in his mind, despite the way his bones scream at him to run, run after Eddie, he stays put. He knows well enough what it would look like to chase Eddie down the steps and through the party. It wouldn’t be good and in the light of day they would both face consequences for their inhibition. Richie just stays put, standing in the middle of the bathroom with his arms still outstretched and the door swung wide open. 

He’s not sure how long he stands there. Eventually, though, he sits down on the closed lid of the toilet and just stares off into the swirling patterns of the shower curtain. 

What the actual fuck just happened? It happened so fast, almost violently so, that he can’t even remember it properly. The swimming of his vision distorts his memory, fucks with the sights and the sounds and the way the bathroom tiles burn his eyes. God, he wishes he was sober right now because maybe then this whole thing would make more sense. 

There’s no way Eddie kissed him, there’s no fucking way in hell. It has to be another trick of the light, an alcohol induced fuck up. His mind is playing trick after trick on him but he can still feel the way Eddie's lips pressed against his. It was only for a second but fuck, it left him burning for hours after. Has it been hours? It feels like it. He can’t even remember why he originally came up here. 

The distant bass from the speakers continues to reverberate through the floor and Richie feels his heart rate change with the tempo of every new song. When the beat is hard and fast he feels like he’s drowning under a thousand ocean waves. He almost gasps for breath under the panic of it all.

This can’t be happening. Nothing makes any amount of sense and it makes his vision swim. It’s not real. Nothing in this room is real and it doesn’t make sense and, holy shit his stomach is turning inside out. He doesn’t think he drank that much but he must have. There’s no other explanation for him to feel so uneven on his feet, no reason for him to replay and replay and replay the memory of Eddie in that bathroom only seconds ago. Tear stained cheeks, broken words, fluorescent light, generic cherry chapstick. Hints of toothpaste and alcohol and fear and doubt and distance and fuck. He can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. Eddie’s not even gay. He’s made that clear enough in the past few years. Why would he kiss him? Why now, in the liminal reality of a stranger’s bathroom? They’re not who they say they are in there. There was something so scared in his eyes. Something so broken and fake and fucking hell. Richie’s vision swims again and he almost lets himself fall completely to the ground but the thought of being horizontal makes his stomach churn bile into his throat. 

He sits there until another drunk body stumbles into the bathroom. It scares the piss out of him at first, and then he has to stop the broken vowel that catches in his throat when he realizes that the person in front of him has brown hair, not blonde. 

Without looking to see who it is, Richie stumbles out of the bathroom and into a room across the hall. It might not be safe yet; the bottom floor could be teaming with monsters and villains who want to rip him limb from limb. If he goes down there, they’re doomed. The monsters will get them both and chew them up and spit them out. At least if he’s alone, Eddie has a chance of making it out alive. Richie can’t risk anything happening, so he stumbles to the ground in a child’s bedroom and leans his back against some silly race-car bed that reminds him of being eight years old and running matchbox cars up and down the railings in a two-story house that doesn’t belong to the Toziers. 

The spinning in his head doesn’t stop when he leans back. If anything, it gets worse. Pictures and toys and doorframes twist in his vision and his throat burns with confusion and acid. There’s too much happening, even in the quiet, lonely space of this room. The bass is still bumping through the floor and it’s so, so loud inside of his head. There’s nothing to distract him from the thoughts that are creeping in. It’s like a coup inside of his mind, an uprising of repressed memories he didn’t even know about. 

Richie six and he’s got ice cream stains on every part of his face. Eddie sneers at him and says something stupid. Richie says something stupid back. He can’t remember what, but it’s just mean enough to make Eddie’s eyes go wide and his face turn a blotchy kind of red. Richie can only hear the faded sound of childhood voices in his memories, he can only see their lips move back and forth like some kind of weird, ghost spectator watching his past play out in front of him. He watches himself grab Eddie’s hand and walk him toward the lunch line to buy him his very own ice cream bar.

Eddie's eight years old and with Richie on the playground. They’re playing cards, flipping them over and over again, collecting winnings and shouting good-natured insults back and forth at each win and each loss. It’s recess and they’re positioned just far enough from the other kids so they don’t ruin their game. The wind is light, just light enough to feel good on their skin and not steal their cards away. Eddie giggles and his eyes get caught in the sunshine, practically blinding Richie. His powder blue polo is clean pressed, without a single spec of dirt in sight. Neither of them knows that it will be ruined two months later by a bloody nose and tear stains. 

They’re eleven and Eddie won’t even look at him in class anymore. The cast he wears has bright red marker all over it but he won’t let Richie get close enough to sign it. When Eddie got back to school, every interaction felt forced. There is something different in his eyes. His regular, chipper tone of voice becomes something a little more monotonous, a little more lethargic, but Richie doesn’t have that kind of language yet. The only thing he knows is that his friend is being weird with him. So weird that eventually Richie isn’t even sure he can call him a friend anymore. 

Richie is seventeen and he’s lost. He’s in a stranger’s house at a party he was only invited to by proxy. He knows only a handful of people by name but he doesn’t know how to find any of them. He wants to go home but he can’t find his way off the floor. He’s so lost, so stuck in his muddled up memories that he feels like he can’t breathe. There’s a phantom feeling on his lips that steals his breath away and makes his heart hammer in his chest. It’s hammering so hard that he knows that it’s going to stop dead in its tracks soon. It’s going to stop dead and he’s going to fall over dead. Someone’s going to find him in the morning, strings of fate wrapped tight around his throat, face as blue as his ocean eyes. Nothing can help him. Nothing can stop this horrible, awful, all-consuming fate. He’s staring down the end of the barrel and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe anymore and –

“Richie?” Someone’s voice cuts through the haze and it’s only then that Richie realizes the light from the hallway is being blocked by a slender, familiar figure. It takes him a second to process what’s happening. To figure out who is standing in front of him, concern visible on his shadowed face. “Fuck man, what are you doing up here?”

“Uh,” is all that comes out at first. He sounds dumb, caught off guard and struggling to make sense of his own situation. After a few seconds of silence, Richie just looks up and says, “I don’t know.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Stan says kneeling down in front of Richie to get a better look at him. Stan’s movement unblocks the hallway light and Richie has to squint to adjust again. Stan stays a couple feet back but Richie can see the way his eyes are darting back and forth, bustling taking in the sight in front of him. 

“Oh, uh, sorry Stan,” Richie says, aware that he has to say something in response. The way Stan is looking at him does little for the anxiety attack he’s only just managed to keep at bay. “How long was I gone?”

“Like an  _ hour _ , are you okay?” Stan’s voice shifts into something softer. He scooches forward on his knees slowly. He moves as if Richie is a wounded animal he’s trying not to startle. Maybe he’s right. Richie has no idea what he looks like right now, he has no idea how he feels. There are so many thoughts flicking around inside of his head. Has it really been an hour? That doesn’t sound right. He came upstairs to pee what felt like only twenty minutes ago. How long has he been on the floor? How long was he talking to Eddie? How long was he  _ kissing  _ Eddie? 

Fuck. 

Eddie Kaspbrak. He  _ kissed  _ Eddie Kaspbrak. No, Eddie kissed him. He kissed him under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom and then he ran and now Richie is here. He’s sitting in front of Stan and he wants to ask if he saw Eddie, if Eddie was still downstairs. Maybe Richie could find him. Maybe he could grab him in the kitchen or on the front lawn or in the back of Richie’s truck and they could talk. Really talk, like with words instead of lips and voices instead of actions.  

“Yeah, I think – I want,” Richie starts and stops, breath catching in his throat as he takes a sharp inhale. What does he want? He wants Eddie. He needs to see him, needs to speak to him. Needs to see if he’s okay, because Richie sure isn’t okay. 

His attempt to lean forward ends up being more of a sudden lurch and he ends up leaning over himself, hands pressed firmly into the hardwood floor. Everything in his line of sight spins and he reaches out for Stan, hand clutching into his pant leg. It’s a desperate attempt to slow himself down a little bit, to stop the spinning. It takes a moment for Richie to look up and form a complete sentence. “I think I might be a little more fucked up than I thought I was.”

Stan looks like he wants to say something, ask something of Richie that Richie really can’t answer right now. There’s too much knocking around in his empty, empty skull. It’s so loud, so awful and confusing and terrible. And what would Richie even say if he asked? Is he drunk enough that the entire truth would come spilling out from between his teeth? No, he doesn’t need alcohol for that. He’d probably just empty the contents of his stomach instead of his brain. 

Stan doesn’t say what he wants to say. Instead, he adjusts his hoodie sleeve and reaches a gentle hand up to Richie’s cheek to dab away moisture Richie didn’t even know was there. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK SCHOOL IS DONE HERE IS CHAPTER 8 STRANGER THINGS SEASON 3 WAS GOOD I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH I'VE MISSED THIS STORY A LOT. I somehow managed to land a 4.0 so I'm thrilled and having a great summer. 
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter is so long (am I? No I'm not) but I've been excited about this for a long time. I hope you guys like this shit that I'm whipping up.


	9. I Know What You Did Last Weekend (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Holy shit. This is not okay. There is no universe that exists where this is okay. Who in the fucking fuck decided this was alright? Who got up one day and just said _well, I guess this is going to be a thing that happens?_
> 
> Whoever decided that? They can eat an entire horse’s ass. No, seriously. They can. They can eat shit. They can eat shit and _die_ because none of this is remotely okay. This isn’t okay. Fuck. Holy shit.
> 
> The blinds of his room aren’t even open yet but the small amount of morning light that trickles in is enough to split his head in half. His brain is throbbing in his head, pulsing and shifting and cracking off into little pieces that fill his ears and eyes with pain and regret. The pain starts at the very tippy top of his skull and trickles down to the spaces behind his ears and down the back of his neck. It pulses in time with his heartbeat and makes every waking second a horror show.

Oh god. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Holy shit. This is not okay. There is no universe that exists where this is okay. Who in the fucking fuck decided this was alright? Who got up one day and just said _well, I guess this is going to be a thing that happens_? 

Whoever decided that? They can eat an entire horse’s ass. No, seriously. They can. They can eat shit. They can eat shit and _die_ because none of this is remotely okay. This isn’t okay. Fuck. Holy shit. 

The blinds of his room aren’t even open yet but the small amount of morning light that trickles in is enough to split his head in half. His brain is throbbing in his head, pulsing and shifting and cracking off into little pieces that fill his ears and eyes with pain and regret. The pain starts at the very tippy top of his skull and trickles down to the spaces behind his ears and down the back of his neck. It pulses in time with his heartbeat and makes every waking second a horror show. 

He’s not even sure why he’s awake, either. There’s no reason for this. This is bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. What fucking time is it, anyway? Not wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey, that’s for sure. More like wakey, wakey, vomit and regret. Yeah, that sounds much fucking better because if the way his stomach is churning is any inclination to what’s in store for him, he’s going to have a rough fucking morning. 

And what about the rest of his body? Huh? The head and stomach, yeah. Sure. Fine. But the rest of it? the aching between his shoulder blades, the soreness in his thighs, the splitting feeling in his forearms. What in God’s name is that all about? There are a few fuzzy areas about last night, but there is no way he ran two marathons and bench pressed the entire football team. 

On top of it all, he has practically zero energy. Between the pain in his head, the twisting in his stomach, and the discomfort littering the rest of his body, Richie has no motivation to shift into anything even resembling a more comfortable position. All he can do it turn his head slightly and reach for his phone. 

The notifications mean nothing to him. Without his glasses, the text is blurred and illegible, anyway. There are little, cloudy pink boxes which look like they might be Instagram notifications. Small, faded green bubbles indicate text messages. Blue is for Facebook which can only mean it’s someone's birthday. And yellow means he has to have at least one Snapchat, if not several more. They all sit on top of a blurred, multicolor background he has memorized. It’s of him, Stan, and Bev asleep on the couch in his living room. His parents snapped the picture and sent it to him. He may have gotten snarky with them, claiming it’s an embarrassing invasion of privacy and dignity and all things holy, but it’s been his background ever since. 

His fingers idly trace the scuffed and broken edges of his phone case. He’s had it so long that, at this point, everyone is surprised his phone hasn’t fallen straight out of it. Hell, he’s mildly surprised himself. 

Something in the far right corner of his brain reminds him to buy a new phone case, but that’s overridden by the sharp, excruciating pain that rockets through the front of his head and straight into his eyes. It’s blinding and it makes him drop his phone because _holy fuck_ there is no reason for a headache to hurt this bad. 

He doesn’t even hear his phone hit the ground. All he can do is grab the edge of his blanket and hike it up over his head. The darkness is soothing, though not a cure-all for his ailments because once his headache begins to dim, an unpleasant heat settles in the top of his stomach. Bile begins to burn up the back of his throat and, well, if he throws up in his bed that’s a problem for Future Richie. Present Richie cannot be bothered with it right now. The only thing Present Richie is worried about is the way his consciousness spins further and further down. Darkness becomes him. Relief floods his system. Sleep, in all of her gracious glory, returns once again. 

She stays with him, soothing his hangover with gentle waves of imagery. Behind his eyelids, he sees his friends and the sun and the sky. He feels brown dirt underneath his fingertips and green grass tickling his bare calves. Something distinctly summer settles into his dream and, even though he can somehow tell it’s a dream, he doesn’t want to leave. He’s distantly aware of the physical and emotional hell he’s going to have to walk back into. Fuck that. He’s going to stay here with Stan and Bev and Eddie and Mike and –

“Richie, for the love of god it’s almost noon!” 

His door slams open and someone – or some _thing_ – comes pounding in. Her stomping footprints pound in time with the newly restored throbbing in his head and Jesus fucking Christ can’t anyone get a wink of shut eye around here? 

“Richard, I swear to god – what is that smell?” Maggie comes closer and Richie can see the tips of her faded green slippers in the small air hole he left in his blanket cocoon. He’s well aware of what comes next and if he could, he would stop her. He can’t, though. He’s too weak and too woozy and too faded to do anything to prevent the way she rips the blanket off of him. 

And, well, low and behold there is vomit in his bed. 

Maggie shrieks something that might be words or very well might be just a shriek but Richie wouldn’t be able to understand it, anyway. His entire world goes white with pain and discomfort and his ears ring with the intensity of a thousand bells. Instinctively, his eyes close and he curls a little further in on himself. It’s all wishful thinking, though, because another wave of nausea hits him. At least this time he has enough sense to grab his trashcan before he hurls up a second round of stomach acid and whatever the fuck he ate last night. 

“Wentworth!” Maggie screams. When Richie looks up, her entire face is red and her ears are practically steaming with anger. “Come collect your son!”

An involuntary groan falls from Richie’s mouth as he covers his ears and screws his eyes even tighter. “Mom, please, my head.”

“Don’t you ‘mom, please, my head,’ me, young man!” Maggie bellows, this time in the direction of Richie’s vulnerable form. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I was born yesterday? This entire room _reeks_ of vodka, young man!”

Richie wants to argue that it’s not his room that reeks, it’s his vomit, but he keeps his mouth shut. Maybe it’s the fear of upsetting her more, maybe it’s the bile that’s threatening to make a third appearance, or maybe it’s the exhaustion he feels in every inch of his body, but Richie Tozier shuts the fuck up. 

He doesn’t see so much as hear Went walk into the room. His steps are much gentler, nothing but a soft pad, one after the other. Richie would be willing to bet that right next to Maggie’s old slippers is a pair of white crew socks. “Good lord, what a scent on this fine Saturday morning.”

“He’s finally done it, Went. He’s drunk as a skunk!” Maggie cries. Her voice is quieter now that he’s in the room with her, but it’s no less shrill. She’s upset, that much is certain. 

“Well, not anymore,” Went chuckles. “Looks like that part is done and over with. Now comes the _fun_ part.”

“This is so irresponsible! And here I thought him joining a sport would be good for him but all it’s done is – I mean, just look at him!” She trips over her words and Richie can see her in his mind’s eye, waving her arms and stamping her foot down.

The room goes quiet for a second, still with the bloating of a thousand unsaid words. Most of them are unsaid by Richie due to his sheer inability to speak or move. The pounding in his head hasn’t calmed down. If anything, it’s gotten worse. 

“We have to do something, Went. This kind of behavior isn’t acceptable!”

Went hums in agreeance at the same moment Richie chances a glance up. He cracks his eye open, careful at the amount of blinding light he lets into his cornea, and sees Went with his hands on his hips. He’s smirking down at his son and Richie can’t even begin to imagine what he looks like right now. “I think his punishment has already begun, don’t you, dear?” Maggie makes some kind of indignant noise at the both of them and Richie can see she’s got her arms crossed over her chest. Her nose is screwed up tight, but he can’t decide if that’s from her overall mood or from the smell in his room. Either way, it makes him crack a small smile of his own. “But you’re right. This isn’t acceptable.”

Went walks over to the edge of the bed, rather bravely considering the mess all over the hardwood floors. “Richie,” he starts and his voice is calm and soothing and nothing like his mother’s. It’s still firm, but it doesn’t make him feel like his head is about to split right in half. Tears of relief threaten to spring into his eyes. He manages to keep one eye cracked and looking at his dad, waiting for him to continue with whatever it is he’s going to say. “Your mother is right, this is unacceptable. You can’t just go out and get piss drunk, you’re only seventeen. You didn’t even tell us where you were going or that you were going to be drinking.” Richie nods slightly, careful not to jostle his head too much. “You have an hour to get up, get showered, and get downstairs or your punishment will be way worse. Got it?”

Richie nods again, helpless to do anything but. Went nods back and stands, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulder and guiding her out of the room. Richie watches them go until they’re out of sight, door left wide open. 

Holy. Mother fucking. Fuck. 

It takes him almost until his deadline to crawl downstairs. He manages to get a shirt on over his boxers and that’s good enough for him. Fuck showering. No fucking way that was going to happen. If Richie set foot in his bathroom, neither of his parents would see him for an entire week. It sticks to him in disgusting ways, his skin a sweaty mess from the hangover and the leftover grime from last night. 

On his way down, he checks his phone. 

_Bev [7:03am]: richie my love. text me when you’re awake  
_ _Richie [12:46pm]: Alive_

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Went says as Richie shuffles his way into the kitchen. His eyes might be half closed, but they easily hone in on the cup of coffee waiting for him. It sits right next to a made up plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Went is sitting across from the setup, smiling. “This should help you feel better.”

Maggie isn’t smiling. She’s standing behind him, leaning up against the counter with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. Richie eyes her cautiously as he sits down. She looks about ready to explode, cheeks a dull red and puffed out ever so slightly. She doesn’t say anything when he sits. 

“Thanks,” Richie croaks. His throat is sore but he isn’t sure why. Maybe he did some yelling along with his crying last night, or maybe it’s all the acid from the vomit in his bed. Either way, his voice sounds wrecked. 

“You’re welcome,” Went smiles. 

Richie gives them both one more, cautious glance before he picks up his fork. His stomach tumbles at the thought of putting something in there. Whether it’s a good or a bad tumble is to be decided, but he dives in anyway. What’s the worst that could happen, yeah? He throws up? Fucking _been there_. 

The first bite of eggs goes down slow and rough. It’s like his mouth, throat, and stomach are all ready to reject it on sight. Too bad they don’t call the shots in this relationship, though. Richie does. It’s his body and his brain that controls it. Unfortunately for them, it doesn’t matter if the decision he makes are good or bad, higher functioning almost always outweighs instinct. 

And also? Not every decision he makes is a bad one. Take this bite of food, for example. The second he feels it drop into the empty chamber of his stomach, his entire body lights afire with the strong – borderline overwhelming – need to _eat._ And once that happens all bets are off. Teenage Richie Toizer is back in business, ladies and gentlemen. The plate of food is devoured in no less than five minutes. The coffee washes down anything that’s left behind until he’s just gingerly sipping on the last quarter cup of it. 

Maggie and Went watch him, almost unsettlingly. And then, wordlessly, Went slides a bottle of ibuprofen down the table. Richie uncaps it and washes two pills down before leaning back in his chair and giving his parents a much more alert and focused look. 

“Better?” Went asks. 

Richie nods. 

“Good. Because now we need to talk.”

Oh, god. Here it comes. The classic eighties movie lecture brought to him by his one and only set of parents. This is about the point in the story where they find out their son has been up to _nefarious and dubious teenage happenings_ and they sit him down for a stern talking to, followed by some kind of punishment, and then maybe at the end of it a reward for being so well kept during the entire thing. 

Fucking barf. He’d rather still be upstairs in his bed hacking up his lunch all the way from next Thursday than deal with this. The urge to roll his eyes is strong. 

“Yes, we do,” Maggie follows close from behind, trailing off of Went’s words as if she’s the one who spoke them. “Richie, your behavior last night was extremely reckless and inappropriate.”

“To be fair, you don’t even know _exactly_ what my behavior was,” he counters, maybe not so smartly. 

“Oh, yeah, wise guy? Why don’t you tell me what _exactly_ your behavior was,” she sneers and, god, does she make his blood boil sometimes. 

This is one of those telltale moments where things can go right up on their heads. Maggie and Richie, neck and neck for being the most hot headed and insufferable Toizers in existence. 

“ _Well, mother_. I went out with some friends, had a few drinks, danced a little bit in someone’s living room, and then came home.” This explanation should have been satisfactory for her; honestly, it should have, but judging by the look on her face she is even more riled up. 

“And who are these friends of yours, Richie? No doubt someone from that baseball team you’re on.”

“Wait a fucking second,” he cuts, sharply and angrily. Now, the palms of his hands are on the table and he’s leaning forward, staring her down like an angry diplomat at a peace treaty meeting that is going particularly poorly. “ _You’re_ the one who forced me onto the fucking baseball team in the first place!”

Neither of them hears Went as he says, “Now, now.”

“I did not. I said get involved in _something_ , not go drink yourself silly at seventeen! And who, pray tell, was the one who invited you to this ‘living room,’ huh?” She’s smirking and has her hip popped out with the snarkiest _I’m right and you’re wrong_ kind of attitude radiating off of her posture. It would be infuriating if she was right, but Richie has a card up his sleeve that neither his mother or father is prepared for. 

Richie can’t help the smirk that comes over his face when he says, “Eddie Kaspbrak.” The words are a little bit sour in his mouth, but that taste is washed out by the satisfaction of Maggie’s entire face falling straight down onto the floor. 

Went is also noticeably shocked, but he manages to collect himself before Maggie does and asks, “Sonia’s boy?” Richie nods, leaning back in his chair again and sipping the last of his coffee. “I didn’t know you two still talked.”

“I mean,” Richie starts, and then stops. “He’s on the team, too. We talk every now and then.”

Maggie, still full of unbridled rage and huffiness, manages to ask, “How is he?”

“Good,” Richie shrugs because, at this point, he’s not sure what else to say. 

Maggie does, though, because she’s right back on her bullshit in a heartbeat. “Just because Eddie was there doesn’t mean you get a free pass. He’s a schoolboy, not a saint.”

“Your mother is right,” Went says, finally managing to get a real word in edgewise. This entire time he’s been watching his wife and son fire back and forth at an alarmingly fast and emotionally charged rate. It’s not something he isn’t used to and he knows when he can squeeze in between them and when to let it go. “This isn’t like you, Richie. You’re not some kind of… _hooligan_ who goes out and drinks on weekends. I thought that, at the very least, you would have told us where you were going beforehand.”

A small, very distant wave of shame passes over Richie. His relationship with his parents is tense only in the way that every teenager’s is. He feeds them little white lies here and there and they get on his nerves in every possible way, but he’s never really _lied_ to them before. And technically he wasn’t _lying_ last night, either. He really was with Stan and Bev! He just… didn’t tell them exactly where he was going. Not because it didn’t matter, but because he didn’t want it to matter. 

Because he didn’t think he’d get caught, honestly. And if he did think he’d get caught, he didn’t really think about what the aftermath would look like. And now he’s here, swimming in it. 

“We’re not stupid. We know you’re going to experiment with alcohol and sex and maybe even marijuana, if you haven’t already,” Went says. His voice is a little bit softer now and he leans in toward the kitchen table with some kind of fatherly sincerity. Behind him, Maggie loses some steam. “At the very least we want you to be safe. And being safe means telling us where you are and what you’re doing.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go,” Richie says softly after a moment. Went’s words have time to sink in a little bit, that genuine love coming inside of him and settling. But he knows that even though Maggie loves him and agrees with her husband, she would have three entire cows before she sees Richie off to some high school party on the rich side of town. 

“Maybe not,” Went says.

At the same time Maggie says, “Definitely not!”

Well, there it is. Confirmation by the buckets. 

The room goes quiet in the honesty of it all. It’s a feeling Richie wanted, only twelve hours too late and from someone much, much different. 

With his coffee cup officially empty, he has nothing else to occupy himself with so he plays with the small band of silver on his pinky finger. He spins it around a few times before he says, “I’m sorry. I just wanted to have fun like everyone else in this town.”

The room is slowly, slowly deflating like a helium balloon that’s been left for days, sinking to the bottom of the floor at a mind-numbing pace but sinking all the less.

Went looks over his shoulder at Maggie and the two of them share a soft, communicative look. The kind of look that is its own kind of language formed over the years and years of their marriage. 

He sighs before he speaks, “Listen, you’re not grounded but we’re not letting you off the hook, either. Chores for the entire day. We were going to take your phone, too, but I think that we can look the other way with that as long as you manage to get everything done.”

“Your bedroom needs to be cleaned,” Maggie says, “Sheets, floor, laundry. Open up a window, too. It smells awful in there. Also, you’re on bathroom duty – make it shine. We want you to sweep and vacuum the entire downstairs. All of the dishes from last night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast, too. And finally, trash.”

The throbbing in his head comes back as she lists everything off on her fingers. It’s not as intense this time, thank god, but it’s there. Ever present, like fucking back acne or something. It makes him rub at his temples and he hums in agreement to her terms. 

Maggie hums in response and then Richie thinks it’s over and done with. His eyes close while his fingers dig in relieving circles. He takes one deep breath in and then lets some of the tension out of his body. 

“Son,” Went says, just as Richie is about to move to stand. When he opens his eyes, he sees his father looking at him from across the table, eyes only a touch concerned. “We love you and we care about you. If you do decide to, you know, drink again – or really do anything that could be dangerous – do you… would you call us if you were in trouble?”

Richie looks at his father and then at his mother as he mulls the words around in the mush of his brain. Both of them are looking at him with sincere looks. It’s probably the calmest he’s seen Maggie since she woke up him. 

Would he call them? If Stan hadn’t found him last night, would he have called his parents? Part of him didn’t even think to do that, in all honesty, but now that the seed has been planted he wonders what it would have looked like. Messy, probably. They would have had to drive all the way to West Broadway but he knows in his heart they would have done it. He would have been covered in tears and intelligible words and regret but they would have taken him home, wrapped him up in the safety and comfort of being young and cared for. He’s lucky, in that regard. 

“If I was in trouble, yeah,” Richie says after a long moment. Went breathes a sigh of relief as Richie continues, “Stan took me home, though. Don’t worry, I was safe.”

“ _Stan was there?!”_ His mother screeches and fuck. Did he just fuck up? Holy shit, did he just _fuck up?_

“Please don’t call his parents!” Richie blurts out and Went’s hand goes up in an instant, separating them both and diffusing the situation. 

“We won’t call his parents. Was Bev there, too?” Richie nods and Went shakes his head slowly, a small smile creeping onto his face. “You, kids.”

And with that, he stands up and exits the kitchen, no doubt going to have his morning shower and run whatever adult dad errands are on the list for today. Maggie sends Richie a glare that’s been watered down with humor and sympathy and then she leaves, too. 

And then the real fun begins. And by real fun, he means cleaning the puke out of his bed. It’s gnarly work, really, but it’s a grave he dug for himself. After he’s managed to scrape most of his shame into the trashcan by his bed, he balls his sheets up and brings them to the first floor. 

On his way down, he checks his phone. Snapchats and Facebook aside, there are people in this world he _actually_ wants to talk to and he’s replying to them once his sheets are loaded into the washer, detergent and all. 

_Bev [12:53pm]: jesus christ finally. how you holding up?  
_ _Richie [1:37pm]: I feel like I got hit by a mack truck_

Once that’s taken care of, he sets out to work on the house from top to bottom, meaning his room and the upstairs bathroom are the first things to get cleaned. If he cleans his bedroom, though, he knows he’s going to end up falling asleep for the rest of the day, so that’s out of the question.  

The upstairs bathroom belongs almost solely to Richie. His parents have a master bath attached to their room, so they don’t ever have to use on the one in the hallway unless something breaks in theirs. Which means, Richie’s bathroom isn’t the cleanest thing in the world. It’s not disgusting, but it needs some work. 

His boxers ride up the backs of his thighs when he sits down. It cools him down a little bit, shifting the heat that’s built up in his body. The cover of the toilet seat is soft on his skin, bringing a mild amount of comfort to the tasks at hand. He’s feeling better, the eggs and bacon absorbing most of the acid and bile that was still boiling in his stomach. It still sucks, though. His arms and legs feel like jelly and the pounding in his head won’t stop no matter how much coffee and Advil he has. It’s better, though. And Went assured him it wouldn’t last forever. 

Fucking hell. He’s never drinking again. 

“Okay, we can do this,” Richie murmurs to himself before standing up. His legs and stomach scream at him but he does it. He stands, wobbling slightly on his feet, and grabs the Clorox out of the bucket Maggie handed him on his way upstairs. He sprays it generously over the sink and bathtub before sitting back down. His hands brace themselves on his knees and he takes in two deep breaths tainted with chemicals and regret before he stands back up and grabs a paper towel. “We can do this.”

He cleans. He does it because he has to. Because if either of his parents come upstairs later on and this bathroom isn’t _spotless_ he can say goodbye to every single thing he had planned for every single summer for the rest of his life. 

The fluorescent lights of his own bathroom sit in his skin in a way he doesn’t want them to. It’s not comfortable – and not just because of the alcohol leaving his body through his pores. He was never one to drink to excess, but he remembers hearing stories in the hallway from people who were. They would black out and not remember a goddamn thing about the night before. They would wake up feeling like their consciousness was clawing its way out of their eyes, eat some greasy food, and hear stories about themselves from their friends about the crazy shit they did. 

Richie hits almost all of these bullets except one: he doesn’t need to listen to stories about himself. He remembers. He can recall almost every moment of the party in excruciating detail. He knows he won beer pong. He knows he dressed Stan to the nines. He knows Bev and Ben made out _hard_ on the dance floor. 

He knows he kissed Eddie under harsh lights much like these ones. 

_Bev [1:42pm]: yeah that happens when you drink your weight in vodka  
_ _Richie [2:10pm]: No that’s what happens when I let Bill mix my drinks for me_

The lingering aftertaste of cherry still sits on his lips and on the back of his tongue. They didn’t make out, but the memory of it all lingers in his mouth as if they did. It sits in the very back of his mouth so when he breathes out the taste of him amplifies by a thousand. Even through this morning’s vomit, he can taste it as if it’s untainted. 

The toothpaste in the bowl of the sink comes up on clumps on his paper towel. He wipes in a circular motion, hypnotizing himself in the process. 

There is something sitting in his chest, heavy and hard and confusing. He wouldn’t call it animosity, because he really doesn’t feel that towards Eddie right now. He just doesn’t _get it_. he can hardly think clearly through the hazy morning spins but he also can’t get it off of his mind. 

When Eddie leaned in – if Richie remembers it correctly – he practically crushed their lips together. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe Eddie just fell forward and Richie caught him. Yeah, maybe he caught him with his lips. Took the ultimate sacrifice to keep his friend from face planting on the ground and instead… face planted… on Richie. 

The room spins a little bit and it makes Richie wobble again. His hands grip the porcelain sink so hard that his knuckles turn white. In the mirror, his face is pale and damp, loose curls sticking to his forehead and the spaces in front of his ears. To be frank, he looks like shit. Hangovers aren’t a good look, apparently. 

When the sink is free of water stains and toothpaste, Richie moves on to the bathtub. He sits on the edge of the tub, feet inside as he works at the soap scum built into the grout between the tiles. 

Accidents happen, right? There are plenty of things that are accidental, like the time Richie’s bike tired got jammed into Stan’s pegs when they were thirteen. It sent Richie careening over his handlebars and face first into the pavement. That was an accident. Neither of them had meant for it to happen. And the time that Bev threw that Super Bounce Ball at the wall and it nailed Richie right in the eye on the bounce back? That was definitely an accident. She wasn’t aiming for him and he wasn’t trying to catch it with his face. 

Eddie, though? Yeah, it could have been an accident. Eddie could have fallen right into Richie, all drunk and out of control and not there. Except he kind of was. Eddie was making perfect sense up until that moment. Richie could follow most of it, even in his own drunken state. Eddie felt lost and he was crying. He had something to prove. And then he kissed Richie. 

Not on accident. Definitely not on accident. The look in Eddie’s eyes flashes in front of Richie’s again. The half-lidded storm clouds that were practically trained on Richie’s own lips. Or were they? He thinks they were. And then he fell forward and kissed Richie and Richie caught him. He kissed him back. That wasn’t an accident, either, was it?

The heat spikes in his body again and his stomach churns. The cool feeling of the bathtub on the soles of his feet is nice and Richie strips his shirt off without thinking. He slinks into the tub, resting his back against the cold bathtub and sighing in relief at the instant chill it sends down his spine. He’s sticky, so he doesn’t slide down very far and his head lolls to the side, resting in the curved corner.  

He doesn’t sleep, not really. He more dozes in and out of consciousness while his body fights the food fight against the left over alcohol in his system. It’s a rough but noble battle and the steeds inside of his veins gallop forward, swords drawn and shields up. It’s a winning battle, no matter how much he aches and groans and throbs. 

While he floats through the rickety veil of awareness, his mind drifts away from Eddie and into something a little more serene. 

Behind his eyelids, the sky is blue and the grass is green. He can’t feel it, but he knows the air is warm around him in this place. He’s been here a million times and he’s going to come here a million more. There is a weight beside him that he knows is Bev, and another beside her that he knows is Stan. However, unlike the millions of times he’s been here before there is _even more weight_ surrounding him. For some reason, lying like this, he can’t see who it is. He just knows with the deep and primal sense of _knowing_ that there is more weight. It’s not bad weight, either. Just new and there and _more_. There’s so much of it that it might be more than one person – or thing. 

He idly wonders what it is. What could be making him feel so comfortable and comforted at the same time? It might be the weight of exhaustion settling over him, he feels like he’s been running around nonstop these days. Or maybe it’s the feeling of contentment. Lately he hasn’t felt as strung out or restless; it’s hard to feel that way when both your body and mind are occupied. He doesn’t think too hard beyond those listless yet profound things and they never really make it out of the bathroom, either. Thoughts like this stay where they’re conceived. Sure, they always sit in the back of the brain for reference at a much later time, but for the near future it’ll stay tucked away and quiet. Ever present and faded at the same time. 

It also doesn’t help that he’s shaken from his sleep by the sound of his phone buzzing three times on the sink. 

He crawls out of the tub – quite literally – to grab it. It’s a snapchat from Jake he doesn’t respond to, just him with his Derry cap backwards giving him a thumbs up. He’s posing in front of the milkshake place that Richie took him to when he met Stan and Bev for the first time. Now, he won’t shut up about it. It’s not annoying, not really, but Christ it’s as if he’s never been to the diner before. 

_Bev [2:15pm]: whatever_  
_Bev [2:15pm]: im glad you lived tho  
_ _Richie [2:45]: Hardly. Mom and dad are pissed_

He doesn’t feel better, exactly, but he’s got an inch more energy than he did when he started in the bathroom so he decides to move on to the next thing on his mother’s list: his room. It shouldn’t be too bad, not when the sheets are already in the washer. 

He’s not sure how long he was lying in the tub but when he walks past the washer and dryer, the load is washed and ready to be transferred. The second he opens the top, his phone buzzes more insistently than it would with a text. It’s not the staccato _buzz, buzz, buzz_ he’s used to. It’s more drawn out, a couple seconds long and a beat between buzzing. He picks it up. 

_“You’re alive.”_

Stan’s voice comes through the other end of phone in a quick, succinct way. If Richie wasn’t used to it, he’d say Stan was very blasé about the whole thing. 

“Yeah, hardly,” Richie says back. He balances his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he starts to grab his wet laundry from the washer. 

_“How are you feeling?”_

“Like total ass. What the fuck? I spend an entire night having fun and dancing my pants off just to wake up feeling like death himself marched into my bedroom and sat on my face while I was sleeping? I bet he fed me laxatives, too. You know I threw up in my bed this morning? I felt so awful I just puked on myself and then went back to sleep.”

Stan makes some kind of noise on the other end of the phone and Richie can only assume it’s a gag. Which, honestly, he doesn’t blame him for. 

“Yeah! God, it was fucking awful. I got eggs and bacon, though. Dad says a little bit of grease helps with the hangover. I’m in a mountain of trouble, though. Got me on lockdown cleaning the house all day.”

_“Could be worse. You could be dead.”_

Richie doesn’t miss the way Stan’s voice tapers off a little bit. “Aw, Stanny. Don’t worry your pretty little curls off. I’m not dead and I ain’t dying any time soon.”

_“That’s a shame.”_

Richie laughs so hard that it makes his headache flare for a second. “That’s the spirit!” Stan laughs, too, before the line goes quiet again. Richie can hear something in the background as he shakes his sheets out and throws them into the drier. It sounds like the television is on, which makes Richie think Stan is in his living room. He’s got this really old, really big Lazyboy recliner chair that belongs to his dad. It’s got to be the most comfortable thing either of them has ever had the pleasure of sitting on. When they were smaller, before Richie hit his last growth spurt, they used to curl up together on it. Mrs. Uris would find them knocked out in it all the time, some lame movie or cartoon playing on the TV. They’d always wake up with a blanket draped over them. Richie wonders if Stan’s sitting in it, now. Curled up and comfortable and not as lost in thought as he sounds. As if on cue, Stan lets out a deep sigh. 

_“How much do you remember about last night?”_

Richie throws a dryer sheet into the dryer and hits the start button. “Depends, I guess. You mean about my sick dance moves? Or about how you and Mr. Hanlon got all comfy cozy by the pong table?”

There’s a deep pause in which Richie almost stops breathing. His voice had been nothing but light and airy and Stan didn’t even smile through the phone. What does he remember? He remembers Stan picking him up off the floor and practically carrying him out. He remembers silently crying in the back of an Uber. Stan held his hand tight and helped him up the stairs of his front porch. He got Richie into bed as quietly as he could, tucked him in on his side so he didn’t choke in his sleep. Something similar to guilt wells up in the back of his throat at the images of last night in his mind.

_“Do you remember anything else?”_

It’s Richie’s turn to sigh, so he does before he answers, “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I promise you’ll never have to babysit me like that again.”

_“I don’t care about that. I’d take care of you every night if you needed it. I’m just worried, Richie. What the hell happened? You were gone for like, an hour and then I found you on the floor in some kids room crying your eyes out.”_

Richie winces at Stan’s words, even though Stan can’t see him. Brutal, compassionate honesty has always looked good on Stan. 

“Oh, yeah, that,” is all Richie can say in response. This time his stomach churns again but not from the bile. The memory of him hunched over and choking on his own emotions is strong and embarrassing. “Nothing happened, I think the alcohol just got the best of me. Won’t happen again.”

_“Richie.”_

Stan’s voice is soft through the receiver but it’s deafeningly loud in Richie’s head. Everything is loud in Richie’s head; the thump of his heart, the blood in his veins, the breath is his throat. All of it echoes in the empty cavern of his head. In front of him, the dryer rumbles and drones on.

_“You know you can tell me anything, right? We’re best friends.”_

“I know, I know. I’m alright, I promise.”

There’s a small click like sound on the other end that eerily resembles the sound of Stan sucking at his teeth. It’s a sound of reluctant acceptance. There isn’t much Stan could do, anyway. He’s all the way over there and Richie is here, if he pressed too hard Richie would probably just hang up the phone. It’s happened before and there is damn sure nothing stopping it from happening again. 

_“So, hangover got you good?”_

Richie laughs and tells him, yes, yes it did. The conversation continues for a couple more minutes as Richie makes his way over to his bedroom to start on some of the other, more involved cleaning tasks. His clothes get gathered into the hamper, his window gets propped open with a thick stick he found outside last summer, and his desk gets organized. All the while, Stan and him shoot the shit with the occasional pause for Richie to text Bev back.  

_Bev [2:47pm]: how did they find out????  
_ _Richie [3:00pm]: They’ve got to have like a sixth sense or something. They’ve got me doing chores all weekend long. House arrest_

Both of the conversations are strikingly different but both of them bring him a sense of peace that he hasn’t been able to find all day. Even in the bathtub where he felt content and comfortable, there was still something thrumming around underneath his skin. A constant vat of worrying jelly reliving the night over and over and over again.

At least with Bev and Stan, he could relive it in different ways. 

It would be borderline impossible to yank information about Mike from Stan’s mouth if he didn’t actually want to talk about it. He’s loose lipped in very subtle, hard to read ways but with Richie he’s more of an open book than anything else. The night apparently wasn’t terribly eventful – at least not in comparison to his or probably Bev’s – but for Stan it might as well have been everything. He’s smiling through the phone as he talks with an even tone. Calm and calculated even in his elation. 

Apparently, they talked all night and Mike offered to take Stan up this his farm to meet some of the animals. Honestly the idea of Stan anywhere near somewhere so dirty and disorganized is laughable but Richie would pay just about as much money to see that as he would to see Stan go on a legitimate date with Mike. He says as much and Stan tells him to eat a dick but it’s lighthearted in the way that Richie knows Stan would pay equal amounts of money to see either thing, as well. 

In the end, Stan didn’t shoot Mike’s offer down. They don’t have a date set yet, but the possibility is very, very real. Stan must be shaking in his loafers. 

The call ends not long after that and Richie continues to patter on with his chores. His room doesn’t sparkle when he’s done with it, but it’s good enough. His desk gets organized, all of the papers getting sorted and put into stacks. His laundry follows behind his soiled sheets and goes through a washer dryer cycle. His floor even gets swept and mopped with the small carpet he has in the center getting vacuumed. 

It’s the start of him working on the floors. He makes his way downstairs to an empty house. His parents must be gone, so he takes advantage of it by remaining half naked and mopping without disturbances. He’s never really minded mopping, to be honest. There are far worse chores to be done and it’s kind of fun to slick the Swiffer back and forth across the kitchen floors. He vacuums, too. A less thrilling task but not awful. 

The worst thing he has to do is the dishes. Not only does he have the dishes from the morning, but his mother made sure to leave all the dishes from last night's cooking in the sink, too. The feeling of wet, soggy food has the ability to make Richie’s stomach flip inside out and that’s a risk he can’t afford to take right now. If his mother comes home to find more vomit but this time in the sink? Oh, boy. He’d be a dead man walking. 

Oh, fucking hell. Even taking out the trash isn’t this bad. 

There’s a ridiculous pair of yellow rubber gloves under the sink, so he grabs them. He looks fucking awful, what in his plaid boxers and no shirt or socks and these big as hell yellow gloves, but it gets the job done. The sink is filled to the brim, but he washes it all. If it’s small, it goes into the dishwasher. If it’s big, he hand washes it and places it in the drying rack and leaves it there. 

Hey, no one said shit about him having to put dishes away. 

It’s done in a matter of forty minutes and then the trash is taken out and he’s _done._ Finally, he’s done. And right on cue, the front door opens. The house fills with the smell of Chinese food as Maggie and Went make their way inside. 

“Oh, fuck yes,” Richie practically drools. This is amazing. Holy shit. They feed him, then they punish him, then the feed him again? What kind of world is he living in?

“Language. And Jesus Christ, Richie, go put on a shirt or something,” Maggie chides. Richie does as he’s told. He grabs his phone on the way down to find a text from Bev waiting for him. 

_Bev [3:05]: could be worse_

Oh. Shit. Bev texted him back hours ago. Well, too bad. Time to change the subject. Richie has been wondering what he missed. The last time he saw Bev, she had her arms wrapped tightly around Ben’s neck and the two of them were dancing to some shitty music. They hadn’t kissed yet, but Hanscom’s face was as red as Bev’s hair and he looked like he might explode at any given second. Richie wants to know if he did or not. 

_Richie [6:23pm]: Hey by the way what went down with Hanscom?_

When he gets back downstairs the food is laid out across the table buffet style. Richie helps himself to food and heads into the living room. Both of his parents are already sitting on the couch eating their own food. They don’t say anything when he sits down on the recliner and pulls his phone out. Some movie he doesn’t know plays in the background.

_Bev [6:24pm]: you know I dont kiss and tell bby  
_ _Richie [6:24pm]: That’s bullshit and you know it_

Bev texts him back with a series of very telling emojis, to which he doesn’t reply. He’ll just get the finer details on Monday at lunch. 

He settles in and leans back, shoveling a bite of lo mien into his mouth and groaning at the taste of it. He feels the last of his hangover lift away. The jagged edges of his phone case catch on his fingers as he idly rubs it. On the screen in front of him, a man with an ax chops away at a door. A woman screams.

Oddly, Richie feels peace for the first time in the last twenty-four hours settle into his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I am back with an absolutely monstrous chapter. Which means it has to be split into 2 sections. Sorry! (I'm not sorry at all). 
> 
> Can I just say that I am still so overwhelmed with the love and support this story gets? Every single comment on this means the world to me. And they're all so good, too! I can't tell you how many times I've laughed or made a fond expression at or even sat back and considered and thought about something for a long time. I love all of your guesses, I love all of your emotional outbursts, I love the long comments and the short comments. I love the asks and the tags on the tumblr posts. I love everything. I love you guys. A lot. You're really keeping this story going because every time I'm close to finishing a chapter I think to myself "I can't wait to see what everyone thinks, I'm so excited." You guys are just as much of this story as I am. 
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much. 
> 
> As always, come chat with me @ reddie-for-anything.tumblr.com.


	10. I Know What You Did Last Weekend (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie fields the ball and throws it to first base. It reaches the baseman a full second ahead of the runner and the umpire calls the play an out. The crowd, including Richie and Jake, cheer. The score is even and there are two outs on the board. No runners are on base. The pressure is now palpable across the field. 
> 
> Richie feels pressure in the palms of his hands where they sit in his hoodie pocket. He feels it on the back of his neck where gooseflesh rises and tickles the skin. He feels it in his pounding heart, as if he’s the one on the field waiting to make the next move. 
> 
> He feels it again in the drop of his stomach when Eddie glances over and does a double take, eyes locking with Richie in an instant. They only lock for maybe three seconds tops, but suddenly it feels like their living in one of those old stop motion movies. The world starts to stutter again and Richie feels like he’s moving segment by segment as he smiles and pulls his hand out of his pocket to wave.

Sunday doesn’t roll in like a freight train, not the way Saturday does. It’s not as gentle as he wants it to be, but it isn’t violent and loud and vomit covered, either. Instead, he wakes up and goes to his SAT prep course. He passed his practice test with an acceptable score, but Maggie wants to see a better grade. She’s not helicoptering him but she isn’t paying for this course for him to get a lower grade on the SAT than he does on a math test he didn’t study for. 

She’s only a little bit right. Otherwise, she’s just annoying and a little bit overbearing. 

Or a lotta bit.

Depends on who you ask. 

She doesn’t bother him much after that. For the most part, Richie finds himself locked up in his room. He lays on his bed and scrolls through his phone for maybe an hour before he does any residual homework. Calculus problems and a history paper breeze by and then suddenly he’s eaten most of his afternoon up. It’s an easy moving day, the scenes in front of him rolling through piece by piece. For the most part, he’s just trying to keep himself busy. Yesterday was, well, rough to say the least. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that awful and exhausted in his entire life. It took until sometime after dinner was finished for him to feel completely better, and even then, he still went to bed early. Who the fuck knew drinking would kill him like that. Sure, he’s had a few beers before but nothing that would knock him all the way onto his ass for an entire day afterwards. 

Lesson fucking learned. 

The last part of the day has his laptop droning on in the background. Netflix played some kind of movie about a girl who wrote letters to boys she loved. Bev told him to watch it, and so he did. He didn’t hate it, it was actually pretty good. He just isn’t paying attention to the whole thing. He misses entire chunks of the movie by zoning out and staring off at the wall behind the screen. He doesn’t think about anything in particular. He just kind of exists in that way people do when they feel like maybe they’ve lived too much for one weekend. 

He doesn’t even notice when the movie ends and the room is nothing but a bubble of silence and dim lighting until a gentle knock comes on the open door frame. 

“Can I come in?”

Looking up isn’t necessary. Went is standing in the archway shadowing any light that would have come in from the hall. 

Richie nods once and he steps in, moving to sit in the empty desk chair. “How are you feeling?”

Richie shrugs in response, finally looking up at his father. Went has a kind smile on his face, lips stretched in an easygoing way. It doesn’t entirely reach his eyes, though. 

“Fine, I guess.” 

“Good, good.” A small silence passes over the room filled only by the squeaking of the desk chair. It’s weird. He hasn’t really seen much of either of them for the entire day, and now Went is just up in his room sitting in his chair and asking him weird questions. Well, it makes a little bit of sense but not a lot. Sure, maybe he’s wondering how Richie is feeling since yesterday but he thought it was pretty clear that he’s fine now. 

“Can I help you with something?”

“No, not really,” Went says. “Just wanted to chat.”

“Okay?” Yeah. He’s definitely being weird as shit right now. It’s not like Went isn’t the _come and talk to his son_ kind of guy, but this is just weird. Right after Richie got in a shit ton of trouble for going out? Right after they almost drowned him in chores? It’s suspect to say the least.

“Did you have a good time?”

Whomp. There it is. 

“At the party?”

“Yeah,” Went hums. He picks up a small figurine on Richie’s desk and examines it. It’s something Stan had won for him at an arcade when they were little. The plastic is faded on it and the designs are smudged. Back in the day, it looked much sharper and cooler. There were little, intricate designs drawn into the sides of it and Richie had thought it was just the coolest thing in the case. Stan disagreed but won it, anyway, and gave it to Richie for his birthday. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Richie says. He can’t get a solid read on his dad. He’s just sitting there, gently going through the things that are on display and asking questions that make Richie feel a combination of listened to and yet pried open. 

“Stan and Bev went with you, right?” 

Richie nods. 

“Good. Eddie invited you?” 

Richie nods again, this time a little more hesitantly. He’s gone from just looking at Went to basically scrutinizing him with his eyes because this is _weird_. He’s not sure if he should be honest and answer the questions or if Went will report back to Maggie and he’ll spend another weekend waist deep in chores. Went seems to pick this up because he says, “Calm down, you’re not in trouble.”

A breath of relief exits Richie’s lungs and his shoulders lose tension he didn’t even know he was carrying. Went smiles at him again before putting the figure down. Richie smiles back. 

“Tell me about it?”

Richie does, slowly at first to test the waters. He tells him about getting Stan dressed and how awesome he looked, even if Stan didn’t think so at first. Then he tests the water by mentioning playing a game, to which Went takes several guesses at before he accurately asks if Richie played beer pong. 

“Hey, I may be old but I had my fair share of party days,” he laughs when Richie looks at him like a dog with six heads. This is his _dad_ he shouldn’t know what _beer pong_ is but low and behold, Went describes the rules of the game with perfect clarity just to prove a point. 

Whatever. This doesn’t make him cool. 

Went laughs when Richie says he won. Then, he laughs harder when Richie tells him about how Bev made him dance. He just can’t seem to picture his son, the one who is all limbs and no rhythm, dancing to modern pop music but Richie _insists_ he did. He danced with Bev and he danced on his own. 

“Must have been the alcohol.”

“Or maybe I’m just a good dancer.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

When Went asks him how much he had to drink, Richie can’t answer and withers under the disapproving look his dad gives him. 

“You need to count your drinks, Richard. You may be tall, but you’re thin and you have no muscle. You can’t drink like those football players.”

“I didn’t try!” Richie shouts. He wasn’t judging his drinks by everyone else’s, he was just drinking. It’s not even like he was trying to keep up with his friends. He just wasn’t counting his drinks and he had a little bit too much, it’s not that deep. 

Went rolls his eyes with good natures and smiles before saying, “Your mother cares about you. I know she has a funny way of showing it, but she cares. She was very worried about you yesterday morning.”

“Oh? While she was screaming at me or when she was questioning my choice in friends?”

“What you _didn’t_ see was her downstairs, practically in tears because you were covered in vomit and neither of us even knew you were out drinking last night.” 

Richie goes to say something but Went cuts him off, “I know you’re a teenager and you want to keep things secret and have independence and whatever else it is you want, but you can’t just run off to some stranger's house and drink your weight in alcohol when you don’t even know how much you can handle. Alcohol can quite literally kill you, Richie. You _have_ to be safe. You _have_ to be with people you trust. I know your friends were there, but you’re still young. We just,” he pauses for a moment, looking for the proper words, “We want to be the ones you call when you’re in trouble. We’ll protect you. You just have to talk to us. You can have your privacy and your secrets and your fun, but not with this kind of stuff.”

Richie goes quiet for a moment. Suddenly, his sheets are really interesting. Especially the little thread that’s sticking out of the hem on the top corner. He tugs at it a little bit, wrapping it around his finger and then unwrapping it. “You guys wanted me to be a normal teenager so bad and then I get in trouble when I do normal teenager things. ‘Go out, Richie! Make some new friends! You don’t ever leave your room!’ and then it’s ‘You’re grounded, Richie! Those people you associate with are such a bad influence, they can’t be trusted!’”

“You didn’t get in trouble because of your friends. You got in trouble because you were irresponsible.”

“You wouldn’t’ve let me go if I told you the truth!” 

Now Went goes quiet, considering Richie’s words for the second time this weekend. “I don’t know, honestly.”

“See?” Richie crosses his arms over his chest and then leans back against his headboard. “How am I supposed to tell you these things if you’re just going to say no?”

“Alright, how about this? You promise me that you’ll be responsible and I’ll promise to trust you. You _promise_ me that you won’t over drink or cover yourself in vomit or land yourself in a fight or in the hospital and you won’t get in trouble. But if you slip up, and I mean even once, and you lose that freedom.”

That’s an… interesting proposition. One he never expected to hear, ever. That’s something you hear in the movies but never in real life. Parents are never cool with underage drinking or partying or other things in _real_ life. And here his dad is, offering it up on a silver platter for Richie to have with no catches? That doesn’t seem right. 

“Are you being serious?”

“As can be,” Went answers.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch, only rules. No over drinking, no making this a habit, and no lying. Oh, and also. If you find yourself in trouble you _call us immediately._ ”

His words along with his voice seem genuine and sincere. Went isn’t the kind of parent to lie and manipulate. Maggie isn’t, either. She’s just as honest, just in a harsh and reactive way. Went is more human, more understanding. He gets Richie. 

In the end, they shake on it and Went leaves him to his thoughts. They didn’t talk about everything and Richie wouldn’t have said it all even if Went had asked for a play by play of the night. In fact, asking for a play by play would have been the fastest way to shut that whole thing down. Still, though. He feels a little bit better after his dad leaves. It’s nice to not have such thick tension between him and his parents, anymore. 

It’s been warm out, lately. Not warm in the ways that make anyone sweat just from existing or wear lighter clothing, but warm in the ways that make life a little more bearable. It helps. It makes things easier to handle, in some ways. Makes things easier to see and hear and understand. 

It makes things easier to say, too. By the time the sun sets at the end of the weekend, Richie feels something new and determined in his bones. It’s nothing too big, nothing bolstering under his skin, but something new nonetheless. The entire time he gets ready for bed, he thinks about it. Various plans are formed and then scrapped and then formed again until he feels like he’s having the same daydream over and over again until the differences are indistinguishable. 

He’s going to try to talk to Eddie. Somehow, someway, he’s going to try to talk to him and figure some of this out. He’s not really sure what he expects to come from it, but there’s something about that night that’s eating him up and if he doesn’t get answers it’s just going to build until it consumes him whole. Why did Eddie kiss him? What was he talking about? Why did he run? Why was he _crying?_

Richie finds himself thinking about it nonstop from the moment he wakes up until the moment he gets to practice. He spends basically his entire day looking for any sign of Eddie in the hall. Richie misses him at his locker, misses him between classes, misses him in the locker room. It’s a game of elaborately unintentional cat and mouse. 

He’s so distracted that Stan and Bev can’t help but take the bait.

“Look at him, he looks like he’s astral projecting himself into another universe,” Bev says around a mouthful of food. She’s got a burger held in both of her hands and an open chocolate milk container in front of her. She’s across from Richie, staring at him as his eyes drift lazily across the crowds in the cafeteria. 

“Yeah, I wonder what planet he’s on,” Stan answers because Richie is obviously not going to. He’s got a salad in front of him with a cup of ranch on the side. He’s also got chocolate milk, but his container isn’t open yet. Every single day, without fail, it’s the last thing he digs into. 

“Probably Jupiter,” Bev says. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right. More stupider.”

“He’s the stupiderist.”

“The grand poohbah of stupid.”

“The grand marshal of the stupid parade.”

“The grand marshal and the sole participant.”

“The judge, jury, and executioner of stupid.”

“The –”

“Can you guys kindly shut the fuck up?” Richie says. His own sandwich sits in front of him, untouched.

“He lives!” Bev cheers. Her arms come up in a celebratory gesture.

Richie just rolls his eyes, “God, you two can’t go two minutes without me paying attention to you.”

“No, we’re too head over heels in love with you,” Stan deadpans. He locks eyes with Richie and takes a slow, almost sensual bite of his salad. 

“Yeah, we’re like your harem, Richie,” Bev leans forward on the table and replaces her burger with her chin. She gives Richie two bats of her eyelashes and a sickeningly sweet smile. 

“I’m telling Ben and Mike, Jesus Christ,” Richie says, batting at Stan when he makes grabby hands for Richie’s hair. 

“Leave our lord and savior out of this,” Bev says. 

“Speak for yourself,” Stan says back. “He’s not my anything. You can do whatever you want with that.”

This makes Richie throw his head back and laugh, “Stan the Man gets off a good one!”

“Not as good as the one he got off on Friday.” Bev smirks and then it’s her turn to have her hands batted away as she reaches for Stan. She dissolves into a fit of giggles when he easily traps both of her hands with one of his and then tries to tickle her with his free one. Richie can’t help but whip his phone out and record as much of the squabble as he can for his snapchat. 

That’s cut short, however, when Stan notices and shouts, “Don’t record me!” and smacks Richie’s phone down. Bev is too busy laughing to do anything but. 

When she calms down she asks, “What’s on your mind, Dick?”

“Nothing,” comes out automatically and for a split second, Richie feels a pang of guilt. This is the normal answer to questions like that because no one ever really talks about exactly what is on their mind. The things that are normally on peoples’ minds are arbitrary and useless, like _wow, the wall looks kinda weird today_ or _I never realized that the pattern on the table kinda looks like Abraham Lincoln if you squint and turn your head a little bit_ or even more serious stuff like _wow, I think I might actually fail my chemistry test_. 

He’s not thinking about any of those things, though. He’s thinking about Eddie and where he is. He’s thinking about what he’s going to do when he sees him, what he’s going to say, how it might go. It’s persistent and instant and consuming. Right at that moment, though, he’s thinking about how he wants to see Eddie. Just the sight alone would bring some kind of comfort and confirmation to his aching bones. He hasn’t seen him all day and he’s beginning to think that it’s just been some kind of fever dream that he can’t let go of. He didn’t actually see Eddie at the party, they didn’t _actually_ kiss. He was just really fucking drunk and blacked out and started making shit up. Maybe none of that ever happened. Maybe Eddie doesn’t even _exist._ Maybe he’s just some phantom spirit that’s haunting Richie. Yeah, that sounds legit. 

He can’t say any of that to Bev and Stan. They wouldn’t understand what he’s talking about. They don’t even _know_ what happened and he has no idea where to begin with that. The guilt of it starts in the bottom of his heart and lurches down and then up again through his stomach. It’s painful and dizzying but any bit of the truth stays locked inside of his throat. 

“Bullshit,” Bev says and Stan nods in agreement. 

“You were basically as vacant as a greasy motel in the middle of the countryside,” he says. 

“I guess I still feel shitty from this weekend. I feel like I hardly slept,” Richie answers. Neither Bev or Stan make any indication that they believe what he says, but they don’t push it too hard, either. 

“You know, for how much shit you gave me for not spilling what happened with Ben, you sure are being a secretive little bitch,” Bev says and then takes another bite of her food and washes it down with milk. Her words aren’t mean, but they’re not gentle, either. 

Richie doesn’t rise to it and Stan changes the subject. He eyes Richie warily first, waiting to see if the conversation will take a slightly more in depth turn, and then turns to Bev and asks about the play. She’s been spending more and more nights at the school doing practices and she tells them that they’re starting to be able to do full run-throughs. Some people are still on book but she’s off and focusing more on her stage presence than line memorization. They still have just over a month before show day and Bev can’t decide if she’s exhausted or excited just yet. 

Lunch ends on that note and the rest of the day passes the way it normally might. It’s slow and fast in all of the same ways. 

It passes all the way through the locker room and through most of practice. He spends the majority of that time just putting his energy into his body. He does his laps, warms up his arm, does his grounding work, and gets onto the field for plays. The coach takes turns hitting balls to various spots. During each hit, the team tries to move in unison to where they’re supposed to go. Richie spends his time running back and forth in right field until he’s out of breath and has got a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He fields whatever comes to him, even snagging a ball that glides past the first baseman. His coach shouts some kind of praise at him but he isn’t listening. He’s almost robotic, going through the motions and staying focused as best he can. 

There's a bittersweet taste in his mouth that he can’t wash out no matter how many times he grabs his water bottle from the where the foul line is and chugs. In the end, he just ends up having to run and take a piss more times than he can count. 

On the next field over, varsity is neck and neck with another team. When Richie glances over there, he can see the way the scores are too close for comfort and only rising as the game goes on. By the time practice actually ends, they’re in the seventh inning and it’s tied. The pressure is on but Richie doesn’t feel it, not the way he would have last week, maybe. Before, he’d be the first one over to the fence to support them. Now, he’s not sure if he even wants to go. 

Ghost or no ghost, Eddie is probably over there. He can feel himself chickening out. If he sees Eddie, maybe everything is real after all. Maybe everything that happened at the party really did happen – _it did_ – and if he sees Eddie he won’t be able to escape it. It’s this big, conflicting balloon welling up inside of him and the comfort he thought he might find is replaced by unease. 

He probably wouldn’t go, either, but Jake is suddenly by his side with his own bag thrown over his shoulder. “Richie-itchy, you’re slow today.”

He’s got kind smile on his face and his hair is matted from his cap. Richie has rarely seen him without his cap, but apparently this is just one of those moments where it’s off and in his backpack, stored away for safekeeping. 

“I think I’m just gonna head home, Jake and Bake,” Richie says. He doesn’t look over at Jake, not entirely. “Practice was brutal.”

“Yeah, what with all your running back and forth to the can, I’m sure it was,” Jake laughs back and claps him on the shoulder. Then he says, “C’mon, finish the inning with me, at least.”

“I don’t know,” Richie mumbles. He zips his bag up and slings it over his own shoulders. His cleats are packed away and him and Jake wear matching slides over their socks. He’s also pulled on some sweatpants to chase off the April chill. When he turns, Jake is looking at him expectantly. 

“We haven’t missed a home game yet,” Jake reasons, “And they always come to ours. C’mon, finish out the inning with me at least?”

Richie swallows a rock lodged in his throat and studies Jake. All he wants is to watch the game with his friend and all Richie wants is to get the hell out of here, but is that fair? Not to Jake. He’d be skipping out on an unspoken tradition without even giving a good reason why and he’s _not_ about to give one. There are no arguments or excuses or good reasons he can give that would make it okay to bail. Jake doesn’t deserve that – he’s nothing but good and Richie would even go so far as to call him his best teammate. The spots of best friends are reserved for Stan and Bev but Jake can have best teammate. That slot is wide open and has a very Jake shaped seat in it. 

And apparently there is a very Richie shaped seat next to Jake on the bleachers. Richie reluctantly goes with, dragging his feet through the grass and keeping his eyes low. Varsity is in the field right now which means Eddie is out there, perched in the grass and playing the game that he used to chase his mother away. Or something else. Whatever it was he had to prove, Richie has no idea. 

Avoiding it, though, is at this point unavoidable. When he sees Eddie, the entire world stops for a second. It stutters in a way that knocks Richie off his balance. Eddie is indeed real and he’s standing not very far away in left field. Of course, most of the empty bleacher seats were along the left baseline so when they sat down they got the perfect view of third base and left field. They got the perfect view of Eddie and boy was it a fucking view. He’s hunched over on the balls of his feet in ready position, waiting for the pitcher to throw the ball. When the crack of the bat echoes across the field, he’s off. He’s running up the middle between shortstop and third base and he’s going fast as all hell. Eddie’s always had a set of legs that could put some of the track stars to shame. Lucky for them he decided to use it for baseball and not evil. 

Eddie fields the ball and throws it to first base. It reaches the baseman a full second ahead of the runner and the umpire calls the play an out. The crowd, including Richie and Jake, cheer. The score is even and there are two outs on the board. No runners are on base. The pressure is now palpable across the field. 

Richie feels pressure in the palms of his hands where they sit in his hoodie pocket. He feels it on the back of his neck where gooseflesh rises and tickles the skin. He feels it in his pounding heart, as if he’s the one on the field waiting to make the next move. 

He feels it again in the drop of his stomach when Eddie glances over and does a double take, eyes locking with Richie in an instant. They only lock for maybe three seconds tops, but suddenly it feels like they're living in one of those old stop motion movies. The world starts to stutter again and Richie feels like he’s moving segment by segment as he smiles and pulls his hand out of his pocket to wave. 

Jake waves, too, and screams, “Nice play, Kaspbrak!”

Eddie smiles at Jake and then gives Richie something of a hesitant look but it’s too quick to tell. It wasn’t _not_ a smile. It was definitely a smile, but maybe it was something else, too. Something knowing and far away. 

But maybe he’s reading too much into it because then Eddie is smiling big and real and then the crack of the bat echoes again and the moment is gone because Eddie takes off. This time, it’s in the direction of centerfield as the ball wizzes between center and right. The runner gets to second base by the time the ball makes it back to the pitcher. 

Richie takes out a Winston from his duffel bag and lights it, taking a deep drag and letting the burn from the smoke sooth him. It’s instantly calming in the way bad coping mechanisms always are. It stops the shaking in his fingers and the spinning in his head and a little bit of the tightening in his heart. He holds the smoke in for three seconds, until his lungs burn in a familiarly comfortable way, and then lets it out. The smoke billows in a thick cloud in front of him and then above him. If Jake minds, he doesn’t say anything. 

Eddie jogs back to his spot and takes root in the grass again. He doesn’t look back over to Richie, but Richie keeps his eyes trained on Eddie. He watches the way Eddie’s shoulders move with the breath he’s trying to catch, the way his fist sits in the netting of his worn out mitt, the way his weight balances on his toes so, so steadily. 

He almost looks like a professional player and Richie almost forgets about everything leading up to this and thinks about that possibility. Maybe that’s what Eddie wants to be when he grows up. He can’t remember the last time they had a conversation like that or what Eddie said. He never really thought about it until now, either, but suddenly he wants to know. He wants to know Eddie’s plans for college and life after school. He wants to know where he’s going to go and what he’s going to study and who he’s going to be. Maybe that’s how he’ll talk to Eddie, if he talks to him at all. It can be real casual and easy like _Hey Eddie, what are your plans for college? I’m not sure what I want to be yet. Hey, did we kiss?_

Eddie’s eyes glance to the side to where Richie is sitting before snapping forward again. 

Yeah. Perfect. Awesome. That’ll work. That’ll be fucking _great_. They can go get their nails done together, too, while they’re at it. Really make it a boy’s day out. Maybe get some brunch or some shit. Real casual and cool. 

In front of him, Richie watches the wind up, the pitch, the hit, and the play. Or, well, the lack thereof. 

The ball comes rocketing down the sand and then grass of left field and Eddie is there, waiting for it. It’s got his body ready, he hardly even has to move to grab this ball, but it looks like he’s stop-motion too because by the time his arm segments down to the grass the ball is between his feet and behind him. 

The field is alive with movement and sound. The centerfielder is sprinting toward the ball, backing up Eddie’s missed play. Eddie himself stays rooted in the ground, seemingly shocked by his flounder. Then, he, too, is moving as quickly as possible. He gets himself onto the sand and in between the centerfielder and the pitcher. In front of him, a runner rounds third and heads toward home plate. To his right, the batter rounds first and slides into second. 

The scoreboard changes against their favor and Eddie stands in the sand while the ball passes over his head and into the pitcher’s glove. 

It’s shocking to admit, but Eddie just missed a play that Richie would have been able to grab easily. How the fuck did that even happen? Eddie wasn’t the kind of player to miss ground balls, he’s the kind that snatches line drives out of the air and makes a double play to first base before the runners even know what hit them. And yet, the ball slipped right under Eddie’s glove. Right between his legs. That’s a rookie mistake that Richie makes from time to time, not Eddie. 

Beside Richie, Jake is on his feet and hollering all sorts of encouragement to the team. There are still two innings left, he says, there’s still time to chase this team back to their own town. There’s still so much time to do everything that needs to be done. 

And yet somehow, there’s not enough time at all. The game ends with a score of nine to eight and varsity walks off the field with their heads down and hats low. Eddie, especially. When he reaches the dugout, someone claps him on the back and rubs his shoulder encouragingly. They disappear into the shade and that’s that. 

“God, that was rough,” Jake says beside him. They stand in unison and Jake's arms stretch up high into the heavens before he turns and looks up at Richie, “Feeling better?”

Richie’s caught off guard by this, eyes still trained on the dugout on the other side of the field. He turns to look down at Jake and hums something inquisitive. 

“I thought you weren’t feeling well. Practice and shit?”

“Oh,” Richie says, shaking himself out of whatever stupor he’d been in. Yeah, he did say that. Yeah, practice _was_ kind of brutal. A lot of running around, but that doesn’t bother him as much as it used to. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good!” Jake beams at him and they walk to the parking lot together. Jake's dark blue sedan is parked right next to Richie’s truck. The paint is sleeker and newer than Richie’s and it’s a funny thing to behold side by side like that. It makes Richie smile a little bit bigger as Jake talks about practice and school and life. 

“I have no idea who I’m going to ask to junior prom,” Jake says idly, opening the back seat of his Corolla and tossing his bag in. 

This catches Richie by surprise and he stops in his tracks, looking over to Jake with his own key lodged in the driver’s side door. “What?”

“Junior prom? In June?” Jake says back. “Dude, there’s posters all over the school.”

Maybe there is, but Richie hasn’t seen them. Posters on the wall aren’t really his style. Most of the time, things like that will go over his head and under his heel until it’s too late to do anything about it. 

He rolls the thought over in his mind for a moment. Junior prom. It seems stupid, honestly. Why go to prom two times? Isn’t it supposed to be just be for seniors unless you were dating a senior? It seems pointless and frivolous to shell out money on tickets and limos and flowers two times for two different high school dances. Sure, maybe he’d to go senior prom but junior? Why bother?

Besides, right now he’s got bigger fish to fry. 

He shrugs in response to Jake and yanks his door open, throwing his stuff into the back and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Not my scene.”

Jake rolls his eyes and sits down in his car. “Nothing is your scene until you’re actually there. I heard you went to Peter’s.” He sticks his tongue out for good measure and Richie flips him off before he shuts his door. He can hear Jake laughing through the glass and metal. 

His drive home is short, but he finds himself taking a few extra streets and unnecessary turns just so he can have a few seconds of peace and quiet. The radio is clicked off and the only noise in the cabin is the sound of the engine rolling and the heat rumbling lowly. 

Everything inside of him stays a jumbled sort of mess that he can’t make total sense of. It’s like a game of fifty-two pickup that he didn’t ask to play. No one ever asks to play fifty-two pick up, not really, they always just find themselves picking up cards off the floor while someone else laughs. That’s how he feels right now. Someone just dropped thoughts all over his brain and he’s trying to pick them all up while someone laughs in the distance. 

He can’t tell who it is but when he figures it out he’s going to smack the shit out of them. 

Jake and his fucking prom talk keeps flitting around in there. Richie didn’t even _know_ there was going to be a junior prom but now he’s got it on his mind. It makes him think of what the theme would be and where it’s going to be held. Who’s going to go? Will Bev and Stan go? If they go, then Richie _has_ to go. They’ll both have dates by then, no doubt, but Richie won’t. They’ll have Mike and Ben and flowers and clothes and Richie will just be Richie with his worn-out clothes and nothing pinned onto his lapel. 

He thinks about that and about his parents. He thinks about what he and Went talked about yesterday. He thinks about all of the words they said and didn’t say. It makes him wonder if he could talk to Went about this whole thing that’s happening right now. Or well, not really happening. Nothing has happened since Friday and Richie isn’t completely sure anything is going to but there might be a chance now. 

Eddie missed that play. Eddie missed that play after seeing Richie. He had gone from being on top of his game to being not only under it, but completely trampled. And they ended up losing the game for it. Richie isn’t sure he’s ever seen a look quite like that pass over Eddie’s face before. It was something akin to disappointment and shame and frustration. And then he wouldn’t look at Richie _or_ Jake for the rest of the game. No matter how hard they cheered. 

Before, Richie wasn’t sure if Eddie remembered what happened or if he had blacked out. Sure, they both had a lot to drink and Richie didn’t black out but Eddie is a little smaller than he is. Maybe he could have. Maybe he could have blacked out and kissed Richie without even being aware of his actions. But maybe not. Judging by that botched game, Eddie remembered just as much as Richie did. Why else would he react like that?

Why else?

He thinks about Eddie, more, and how he missed that ball. That scene replays over again in his mind like some kind of highlight reel from the sports channel. _Get a load at that play! Let’s see it again, slow motion this time._ It gives him just a little bit of hope. Maybe he remembers. Maybe he missed because Richie was there. Maybe he’s feeling the same kind of explosive confusion and disarray Richie is feeling. He hasn’t felt solid on this Earth since Eddie’s lips touched his. Maybe the feeling is mutual. 

He’s almost certain it is. Why else would that have happened if Eddie didn’t feel at least a fraction of the way Richie felt. 

They need to talk. They have to. It’s the only way to fix this building pressure that’s so evidently crushing the both of them. 

He’s going to do it. He’s going to talk to Eddie. One hundred percent definitely going to talk. 

He’s determined to do it so much that he gets to school early the next day, stands in the hall and waits for Eddie to come to his locker. He waits at his own, watching the spot for any signs of viable life. Eddie is the only thing on his mind. All of the other faces are irrelevant. 

He comes by, eventually. Around the time everyone else trickles into the hall. His blonde hair contrasts off the dark lockers and Richie moves in immediately. 

Just as Richie starts toward him, Eddie turns away. His locker closes in the process and he starts off down the hall, the complete opposite direction that Richie had thought he was going to go. Before he can think better of it, he’s calling out, “Eddie, wait,” and walking just a hair faster. His arm reaches out, stopping just shy of Eddie’s own arm where he pauses in the hall.

When he turns around, he looks almost surprised to see Richie. He looks almost like he forgot Richie went to Derry High and that his mere presence alone is startling. “Oh, hey, Rich. What’s up?”

Fuck. He didn’t think he’d get this far. Or maybe he did, but he never thinks far enough ahead to anticipate what exactly he was going to say to Eddie. Part one of the plan had been executed: get Eddie’s attention. But part two? Who the fuck thinks of part two? Who the fuck plans part two in advance? “Uh,” comes out first, almost dumbly. Eddie’s face shifts from startled to confused, one hand coming up to rest on the strap of his backpack. “I just - how are you?”

Oh yeah. Real fucking smooth, Tozier. How are you? How the fuck are you? Yeah, sure. How the fuck are you, Eddie? How are you after you drunkenly kissed me in the middle of the night in some stranger’s bathroom? How are you holding up? Good? Oh, yeah. Good. That’s fine. That’s great, even. It’s dandy. Its fan-fucking-tastic.

Eddie, as expected, gives him an odd look. “Uhm, I’m alright, how are you?” 

The tone of his voice is almost laughable. It’s almost hilarious and if this were any other day, any other circumstances, he’d be doubled over and gasping for air. He would be losing his absolute shit on the outside as much as he’s losing it on the inside. What the fuck is he supposed to say now, huh? This conversation is a mess and it’s hardly even started. 

“I’m alright,” he says because what the fuck else is he supposed to say? Eddie levels him with a weird look and then shrugs and smiles. He looks like he’s about to turn and continue down the hall and Richie can’t have that. No way. He’s come this far, he’s not leaving without finishing what he started. “Wait!” This earns him another weird look but Richie shoulders through it. The awkwardness he feels now is nothing compared to the shit he went through over the weekend. All of the vomit and headaches and body aches and chores he had to endure - no. This is nothing. He can do this. It’s just a matter of how. “Uh. I wanted to talk to you about last weekend?”

Eddie’s stance shifts a little bit. He closes in on himself just a tad, hunching over and tightening his grip on the strap of his back. “Oh, yeah! Sick party, I’m glad you came.”

“Uh, yeah. It was, I guess.” Richie hates himself. He really does. There’s no stopping the little _uh’s_ and _uhm’s_ that come out of his mouth and that make him sound stupid. He looks like an idiot right now, standing in front of Eddie and floundering for his words like this is the first time he’s ever spoken to a cute boy before. God. What, is he asking Bev out to the dance in sixth grade for the first time? Corsage already picked out to match his tie and the color dress he hopes she’ll pick? Or is he staring down into the drain pipes of that sewer grate that’s always freaked him out? 

No, he’s neither of those things. He’s just Richie standing in front of Eddie. That’s it. That’s all he is right now. Why is this so fucking hard?

“Is everything okay?” Eddie’s voice is soft and concerned. It dances elegantly between them. 

“Yeah, I just - do you remember anything?” Richie stumbles over his words again and mentally kicks himself. This isn’t hard. This shouldn’t be hard. He’s known Eddie for most of his life. Well, minus that huge gap in between this year and the year Eddie broke his arm. Other than that, though, he’s known Eddie for forever. Sure, things are a little weird right now. Maybe they’re even a little bit tense, but this shouldn’t be as hard as it is. He should be able to talk to him about this. About their kiss. About that drunken moment that Richie can’t stop replaying in his head.

“Oh, uh,” Eddie falters, glancing at the ground for only a second before shrugging his shoulders and continuing on. “Kinda, yeah? There are a few black spots but I think I remember most of it. Why, did something happen?”

A few black spots. Okay. Sure. That could be anything. Maybe he doesn’t remember dancing in the living room or leaving the party or whatever the fuck he was doing with Bill before Richie even arrived. Maybe that’s what he’s talking about. It’s easy to forget the little details, yeah? Like what he was drinking or wearing. Those are small, meaningless facts in the grand ocean of that night. This isn’t a little detail. This is a big, big detail. Like Stan said, they were in that bathroom for a while. There’s no way Eddie could just forget that. 

“No, nothing happened. I just –” Richie cuts himself off, unsure of how to continue. What exactly is he going to say? He’s not about to tell Eddie what happened in the middle of a crowded hallway. No, he’s not even ready to whisper that. He was mostly hoping for Eddie to give him some kind of nonverbal cue that he remembered. Maybe a wink or a wince or something in between. Maybe he’d say something like _oh, yeah. I remember what happened, Richie_ and then they could go somewhere and talk about it. They could figure things out, settle the dust, make everything make sense again. But Richie can’t just outright say it. If he says it, then it’s real. And what if Eddie doesn’t remember? Then what? He can’t handle that, so he doesn’t risk it. Instead, he says, “I think I blacked out? I’m trying to piece some stuff together. When was the last time you saw me?”

Eddie’s eyes flick back and forth, almost like he’s studying Richie. He’s squinting a little bit, a hardly noticeable crease forming between his eyes, but he shows very little surface emotions. He looks almost deep in thought, like he’s trying to think back to that night, to remember it. 

Then, almost without warning he reaches out to Richie. His hand moves so fast that for a split-second Richie thinks he’s going to hit him. He thinks, _well, this is it. I’ve lived a long, good life. But I guess it’s my time to die_ because he’s convinced, _dead_ convinced that Eddie is going to punch him across the face with enough force to send the bone of his nose up into his brain. That’s something that happens, right? You can kill someone like that? Probably, yeah. Richie remembers rumors going around about that in middle school but no one’s ever proved it wrong. Maybe there’s a MythBusters episode on it. Maybe the Myth Busters accidently kill a guy by rocketing his nose into his brain just like Eddie’s about to do to him. 

The blow never comes. Instead, what happens is similar to the feeling of someone bumping into you from behind and knocking your balance slightly. Eddie’s arm comes around Richie’s shoulders and he claps him on the back, hard. Richie loses his balance, only for a moment, and then blinks up at Eddie just in time to hear, “When we dominated the pong table, man!” 

Richie is startled to say the least – and confused. Eddie is neither mad at him or showing any signs of remembering what happened. Well, what really happened. Instead he’s got this goofy grin on his face, one that says mirrors all of the fun they had had earlier that evening. 

“Oh, yeah.” Richie practically stutters the words out, trying to make sense of the conversation because this is _not how_ he expected it to go. Not at all. “That’s it?”

“Yeah man, we fucking killed it! Unstoppable duo, I’m telling you. Remind me to grab you as my partner every time – I mean. If that’s cool with you?” Now Eddie looks sheepish, one hand coming up to absently scratch at the back of his head. He’s still got that dumb grin on his face and there’s nothing about how he looks or what he’s saying that says he remembers. It just doesn’t make sense, though. Yeah, they were drunk but Richie didn’t think he _actually_ blacked out. Despite how drunk they were, how slurred their words were and how much balance they didn’t have, Richie didn’t think it had been that bad. But maybe Eddie has a lower tolerance. He might have a lot of muscles but he is smaller than Richie, after all. Maybe that’s enough to make a big difference. 

“Uh, yeah, no. That’s cool with me,” Richie says back after a moment. Eddie flashes him a thumbs up and says something about getting to class and then he’s gone, walking past Richie in the direction of wherever the hell he’s going. 

Richie doesn’t get the chance to think too hard about it because he very suddenly goes from standing to being pushed against the lockers. His head bounces against the metal and little flowers of pain bloom in his skull and across his eyes. It makes him brace for another push or maybe a punch or a shove or _anything_ but it doesn’t come and when he opens his eyes, he can see Henry about halfway up the hall. He doesn’t even bother to turn around and admire the picture of Richie trying to stand up straight again, he just keeps on walking as if nothing happened. Richie can see the way his shoulders shake with laughter, though, the menacing kind that relishes in small pockets of containable chaos caused by his own hand. It brings something rickety to the surface of Richie’s skin. Something _nasty._

“Fuck you, Bowers!” He practically screams. His voice breaks on the first word and it makes Henry stop for only a moment. He turns around, gives Richie the kind of look that could spike fear into anyone’s heart, and then presses forward again, through the crowd and out of sight. 

Fucking hell! God fucking dammit! This is it. _This Is_ the breaking point. None of this is fucking fair and nothing makes sense. Nothing at all! Everyone else gets to walk away from this but oh, no, not Richie. Richie is stuck here in this hallway as everyone walks past him. All of them, leaving him to his own thoughts and his own apparently solitary experience. The only person in the entire world who might have answers to why the fuck he’s feeling so confused, the only person who can bring clarity is gone. Walked away after shattering that hope. 

It doesn’t make any sense. Not really. None of this makes any sense and it hasn’t since the moment he walked into that bathroom. Eddie with his bloodshot eyes and his swollen cheeks and his missed play. Eddie and his disappearing acts. His fucking disappearing acts. He sure has been pulling this shit for a while now, hasn’t he?

Ever since Richie could remember, Eddie’s been running with his inhaler clutched tightly in his hands. First, they ran away from the world together. Then, they ran from Henry together. And then, finally, Eddie ran away from Richie. 

Over and over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is part two, as promised! To the person who reblogged the fic on tumblr and tagged it as "I can't wait for conflict resolution" I'm not even sorry a little bit. 
> 
> I'm so excited to see what yall think of the boys in the coming chapters and this one. It's been fun playing with their emotions and fleshing things out. I know it's probably frustrating as a reader, but they're teenage boys. They're dumb. You know?
> 
> I'm working on chapter ten and I hope to have it out soon. I'm also working on a new multichapter project with tinyarmedtrex so keep an eye out for that because it's going to be good old fashioned bloody fun. 
> 
> Come talk to me @ reddie-for-anything.tumblr.com!


	11. There's No Crying in Baseball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rules of baseball are simple. For the most part, things happen in threes. There are three bases, for starters. Home plate doesn’t count. You can’t stand on home plate and wait for someone else to hit the ball so you can run and score. Home plate is the score. 
> 
> Because there are three bases, there can only be three runners at a time. If there are ever four people running at the same time, there won’t be for long. Someone will either end up scoring a run or end up out. And outs – there are only three of those, too. Three outs and the field switches teams. And how many innings are there, huh? Not three, that would be way too short. But there are nine and nine is a multiple of three so there. It makes sense. It all lines up. 
> 
> But the most suspenseful part of the game, by far, is the strikes. A batter can only get three strikes before they’re deemed out. And if he hits it an it’s a foul? That’s a strike, too. A player can get unlimited fouls, but not unlimited strikes. Why, well, Richie doesn’t understand that part.
> 
> Once anyone has three strikes its all over.

The rules of baseball are simple. For the most part, things happen in threes. There are three bases, for starters. Home plate doesn’t count. You can’t stand on home plate and wait for someone else to hit the ball so you can run and score. Home plate _is_ the score. 

Because there are three bases, there can only be three runners at a time. If there are ever four people running at the same time, there won’t be for long. Someone will either end up scoring a run or end up out. And outs – there are only three of those, too. Three outs and the field switches teams. And how many innings are there, huh? Not three, that would be way too short. But there are _nine_ and nine is a multiple of _three_ so there. It makes sense. It all lines up. 

Baseball. A game of threes. Kind of like Game of Thrones but less death and sex and fire and shit. And more baseballs. 

But the most suspenseful part of the game, by far, is the strikes. A batter can only get three strikes before they’re deemed out. And if he hits it and it’s a foul? That’s a strike, too. A player can get unlimited fouls, but not unlimited strikes. Why, well, Richie doesn’t understand that part.

Either way, he can stand at home plate swinging and swinging all he wants but once he has those three strikes, it’s all over. 

Once anyone has three strikes it's all over. 

Richie quite likes that idea. Three strikes, three chances. That’s it. That’s all a person should get. Fool me once? Shame on you. Fool me twice? Shame on you again, I gave you a second fucking chance. Fool me thrice? Well, maybe I should have known better than to swing on a bad pitch, but you can’t tell me I didn’t try. 

Maybe he should have known better for swinging, but no one can ever tell him he didn’t try.

“Nice scrunchie, Tozier,” Marcus says, “Pink is fitting for you.”

“Yeah,” Richie says off handedly, “It really makes my eyes pop.”

“God, did you hear that?” Someone says – Tommy, a senior and the varsity first baseman. He’s always been a bit of a prick, so the fact that he’s opening his fat mouth isn’t such a surprise. Tommy is, and always has been, one of the bigger dick bags at Derry High. His douche-baggery isn’t quite the same as Henry’s. No, he doesn’t go around pushing people into lockers and openly sneering at them. His brand of evil is more or less the quiet kind. He finds vulnerable people and prays on them as much as he can. Rumor has it that last semester he was dating a freshman, which is disgusting on its own, but Richie also heard that she came to school covered in bruises on multiple occasions. Apparently, her father had to step in and end the relationship because Tommy was a little _too_ aggressive with her, as if there’s an appropriate amount of aggression in a relationship. Tommy’s very existence has always left a bad taste in Richie’s mouth. There’s something sleazy and dark about him. “What a _queer_.”

Marcus laughs at this, a bitter and repulsive sound rolling off his tongue before grunting in confirmation. “I bet his boyfriend gave it to him.”

“You’re in luck, Marky, I don’t have a boyfriend,” Richie says back. He closes his locker and sits down on the bench facing the line of lockers that the small group of varsity boys are using. As he speaks, he pulls his cleats tight, not even looking in their direction. “This seat is wide open if you want it. I _know_ you do. I’m every man’s secret spice.”

“Only in your wettest, wildest dreams,” Marcus says. Tommy laughs and, even further behind both of them, Richie sees Eddie smiling. It’s small, hardly even there, but it’s there nonetheless. 

“Oh, c’mon, princess. Daddy got your tongue?” Marcus sneers. 

“What a fucking priss,” Tommy says but Richie doesn’t entirely hear them. At least, he doesn’t hear it enough to register who exactly says it. His eyes are glued to Eddie’s, whose eyes are glued to his duffle bag, searching through it for nothing at all. Everything he needs for practice is already on his body.

“Careful, Eddie,” Marcus says, his tone slipping from mocking to downright cruel, “You might have a secret admirer.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He hardly even moves. He just stands there, staring down at his duffle bag with his jersey clenched tightly in his hands.

The sight of it makes Richie’s stomach turn. He thought maybe, _maybe_ , Eddie would say something. He would turn around and defend Richie. If he really did care, if he really _was_ sorry for what he did, he would step in. But he’s obviously not. He obviously cares more about his stupid, jackass friends than he ever did about Richie.

Fuck, how could Richie be so stupid to believe him? To believe _anything_ he says. All he does is walk around in that fucking jacket and lie his ass off. _Oh, Richie, I’m so sorry. Oh, Richie, I didn’t mean to call you those horrible names. Oh, Richie, I don’t remember the party._

Lies, all of them are fucking lies. Well, fuck him! Fuck all of him. He’s fucking with Richie. He _has_ to be. There’s no way that this isn’t some elaborate scheme to put Richie through hell for the rest of high school. What, is it because Richie joined the team? Tainted the one thing Eddie had to himself? Or is it because Richie just couldn’t back off? He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to try and be Eddie’s friend again. Or maybe Eddie had it out for him since the beginning. Maybe Eddie saw Richie at tryouts and thought _this is my chance to get back at him._ But for what? Richie isn’t the one who stopped talking to him. _Eddie_ stopped talking. Eddie gave Richie the cold shoulder. 

Fuck. Maybe – is it for the arm thing? Is it because Bowers broke Eddie’s arm and not Richie’s? Fuck, maybe it is. Maybe this is it. Maybe Eddie is putting Richie through hell and back just to get his fucked up revenge. Eddie probably goes back to his guys every night and laughs about Richie. _Oh, ha, ha, you guys should have seen his face when I kissed him. He was all like, ‘Oh, Eddie, I’m so gay for you.’_

Fucking – fuck! Fuck him! Fuck Eddie and fuck Marcus and fuck Tom and fuck the entire varsity baseball team. They’re nothing but a dumpster fire that’s going to peak in high school and live the rest of their lives dreaming that they could do something with themselves. 

It’s at this point Richie stands and says, “Cut the shit and say it to my face.”

He crosses the small space between the bench and the locker to stand in front of Marcus. He’s got a good inch or two advantage, but what Marcus lacks in height he makes up for in natural muscle. Plus, he’s got Tommy leering behind him, waiting for the excuse to start swinging. Waiting to make it look like Richie’s fault.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down, Tozier. Don’t be such a girl about it, we were just joking around.” Marcus has his hands up in defense, but he neither looks scared nor sorry. He’s got some fucked up smirk on his face and a look in his eyes that says, _try me. I dare you._

Once again, Richie looks to Eddie. He waits for something, _anything_ to happen but the air goes stale in the locker room. One final chance. One final moment to change everything.

Eddie doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t even turn to look at the three of them. He just zips his bag shut, throws it over his shoulder, and stands. 

When he walks out of the locker room, Marcus and Tommy follow behind. 

The entire team, both Varsity and JV, are gathered on the Varsity field when Richie finally makes it out. He’s the last one out of the locker room. He almost didn’t want to leave. He sat there, rooting in his place on the bench and thinking. He thought about what would happen if he didn’t go out there. Or, better yet, what would happen if he left altogether. Got in his truck and just never went to practice. He could skip town, run off across the country and live out his days being a nomadic hippie. Maybe he’d find someone to fall in love with. Maybe he’d make it big in Cali as a hot-shot comedian with a rough origin story. Yeah. That’d be cool. He could tell shitty jokes for a living and never have to think about this town ever again.

The thought is fleeting, though. Something inside of him, something automatic and mechanical, stands him up and marches him outside. 

“Today, we’re gonna switch things up,” Coach Lee says. He’s got a happy grin on, one that can be seen after good practices or won games. “Coach Arnold and I thought it would be a good idea to have you guys scrimmage against each other.”

“Yeah,” Coach Arnold cuts in, “It’ll be good practice for both teams. Plus, it’s a fun way to spend practice today. Winning team gets bragging rights so JV, you better bring your A game to this.”

“Boys,” Coach Lee says directly to the varsity team, “Make it a fair game but don’t lay down and take it. I wanna see everyone out there working.”

Someone claps their hands and then everyone is standing up and grabbing their gear. Varsity is technically the home team, so they’ve got the outfield first. Richie walks into the visiting side dugout and pulls on his batting gloves. On the other side of the field, he watches the catcher pull on his leg guards and chest plates. The gear always reminded him of a transformer and he wonders briefly what it feels like to wear it. It must feel so powerful, crouching behind home plate like that.  Technically, the catcher is the eagle of the game. They see everything. It’s their responsibility to make calls and protect the home base. He imagines seeing the entire field laid out in front, all of the guys at the ready for his call. 

“One more thing!” Coach Lee shouts out above the clamber of the teams. “If there’s a position you’ve always wanted to try on, this is your chance!”

The boys all explore in excitement and Richie looks at his own catcher, temptation sinking into his skin. He doesn’t take it, though. Instead, he walks over to their left fielder and asks to take that position. The guy in question is all too eager to give it up, wanting to go to first base. Jake opts for shortstop and Charlie moves into the center field slot. They all talk excitedly while, on the field, Varsity actually moves around. 

The pitcher and catcher stay the same, as to be expected, but the entire rest of the field flips over. It’s quite the sight and boy howdy is it going to be quite the game. 

Charlie steps up to bat first and, as promised, Varsity makes it a fair fight. You can tell the pitcher is holding back but, honestly, it’s not by much. Charlie swings once, misses. He swings twice, foul. He holds thrice, ball. On the fourth pitch he cracks it right up the first base line. Bad luck, really, but props on him for hitting the ball at all. There have only been a handful of JV pitchers who throw like varsity boys and Richie remembers losing every single one of those games. 

Charlie jogs back in and is immediately greeted by a thousand hands on his back and shoulders, jostling him in uplifting ways and shouting encouragements into his ear. 

The next few batters cycle through pretty easily. One of the JV boys actually manages to get on base. He makes it all the way to second base, running as fast as his legs will carry him. He hit a line drive right between the first and second baseman and straight into center field. By the end of it, they didn’t score. But nothing could stop them from screaming their heads off. 

After the switch, Richie finds his feet planted firmly in left field. There are groves out there and he finds them easily enough. His feet settle into them, the balls of his feet carrying the entirety of his weight, while he watches the pitcher stare down the mound. Something in him feels so rooted into this spot. It’s easy to feel a sense of comfort here. Comfort mixed with adrenaline. 

Left field is, by far, the most active part of the outfield. Most batters are right-handed and when they hit, the trajectory of their swing naturally propels balls out to this side of the field. It’s the left fielder’s responsibility to be on his toes, to be watching and waiting and ready to move. He could get a myriad of plays out here and, fucking hell, he’s determined to catch them all. Right field is nice, yeah, but he wants to grow out of it. He wants to be something bigger, something better than the least played part of the entire field. 

Richie is more than ready to burn off some steam, so when the bat cracks with the first hit from a Varsity boy, he’s off. It comes right up the center and the second baseman fields it. Richie is right behind them as a backup, ready to snag something if it goes too far. He doesn’t need to, though, because the batter is out before the imaginary crowd can blink. 

The next play comes and the ball sails over all of their heads and into the back of center field. Both Richie and Charlie sprint toward it. Charlie grabs it first and throws it in to second base, but by the time it reaches the runner is already comfortable and waiting. 

It goes like that for a few more batters. Varsity scores one run and they have a runner on second and first when Marcus steps up to bat. He readies himself while the field resets, giving two low practice swings before stepping into the box. Richie watches him and something hot flares in his veins. 

Look at him. He looks so fucking smug out there. How the fuck is _he_ one of the team captains? How the hell did he make it that far? He doesn’t deserve it. Seriously. What the fuck does he have going for him besides his ability to hit a ball and run around some bases? He sure as fuck doesn’t have a dazzling personality to back him up. 

The pitcher winds up and throws. Marcus swings. 

He misses. 

_Ha. Motherfucker. That’s right, strike out like the pansy bitch you are. Strike out to the JV team. You ain’t. All talk and no swing._

Or, well, all swing. All the wrong swings. 

Marcus steps out of the box and gives another low practice swing. Then, he looks up and right into left field. His eyes catch Richie’s, he smiles, and points his bat straight at Richie. Then he steps back in. 

Smug motherfucker. 

The next pitch comes and Marcus holds his swing. _Ball_.

The sun is brighter today than it has been. It might be the brightest it’s ever been this year. It bears down on Richie and the entire Derry High baseball department as they dig their cleats into the softening Earth. This is the first-time all-season Richie has come out in short sleeves instead of a hoodie for practice. 

The pitch comes down the mound. 

At this moment, he becomes acutely aware of the way his shirt is sticking to his skin. It’s bunching up at his neck and the middle of his shoulder blades, on his upper arms. When a small breeze passes by he can feel it skirting across the exposed skin of his lower back. His hair is starting to mat where it’s tied up in his bun. Small, stray chunks are glued onto his neck in little patches that are hard to ignore. He wants to reach back and rustle it, but he can’t. He needs to stay focused. He needs to watch Marcus as he brings the bat up to his ear and down across his chest. 

Blood is rushing in Richie’s ears and the world almost blurs in front of him. This isn’t that serious, he reminds himself. It’s not. It’s just a scrimmage. The points don’t matter and this is supposed to be fun but suddenly it’s not. Suddenly, Richie feels all the pressure from the past few weeks crashing down on his shoulders.

The bat connects with the ball and it sails low and fast. It zips right between the third baseman and where Jake is positioned at shortstop. They both dive for it but all they succeed in doing is kicking up dust into little blooms that would be fun to look at if Richie wasn’t so god damn _invested_ in getting that ball. 

It hits the ground, skipping right before the dirt turns into grass. It’s to the left of Richie and it’s moving fast, faster than most of the balls he’s ever had to field. His entire body pivots to the left and he moves to grab it, to reach his arm out and dive for it if he has to. 

He takes on step before his right foot gets caught on his left and he goes down. 

The soil might be softer than it was in January, but it isn’t soft enough to cushion his fall entirely. With his glove outstretched, Richie hits the ground and skits to a stop not even two feet from where he was originally standing. His eyes close for a brief second on impact and when he opens them he can see a flash of white go past. 

He doesn’t get up right away. The shock of pain that went through his arms and chest is still lingering there, so he lays on the grass and waits while he listens to his teammates finish the play. He can hear the commotion, the calling of names and the sound of leather smacking leather as the ball is given back to the infield.

And then he can hear laughter. He’s not sure who it’s from at first, but he can hear it plain as day. With his ear on the ground, Richie can hear the faint thuds of someone running toward him mixing with the chuckles that seem to be coming from every direction. 

It’s maddening. It’s _embarrassing_. He was trying, honest. He was really fucking trying. This was his shot, his moment to prove himself, and instead he ate dirt – quite literally. There’s a strong, earthy taste in his nose and mouth that he knows will be there for weeks. 

“Richie, shit, are you okay?” Jake says once he gets to Richie’s body. His hands go to Richie’s shoulders and he turns him so his face is out of the grass. 

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Richie coughs back. 

Jake smiles down at him and then grabs his arm to pull him up. Richie willingly goes. Once he’s standing, he dusts off his shirt and pants and looks around. 

“That was one hell of a dive,” Jake says.

Behind him someone laughs, loud and boisterous and mean. 

“Dive? Tozier ate shit!”

Marcus is standing on second base, perched on it like a little bird on a branch. He’s clutching his stomach and laughing with his head thrown back. Around him, other players are laughing, too. It probably isn’t with the same amount of malicious intent but it all burns the same. 

It makes Richie want to scream. He would be more than happy to march over to Marcus and take one of those bats straight to his leg. Really knock him down a peg, you know? 

That asshole did this on purpose. He knew where he was going to hit that ball. He wanted to test Richie, to see how he really played. He wanted to make a fucking _fool_ out of him. 

What burns worse than that, though, is the sight of Eddie standing at home plate, helmet on his head and bat clutched in his hand. He’s laughing, too. His shoulders are shaking and his eyes are crinkled and he’s fucking _laughing_ at Richie. Just like the rest of them. 

“It’s cool, Rich, you’ll get ‘em next time,” Jake says. He smiles at Richie, beams at him in a way that isn’t mocking or demeaning, and some of the edge fades away. Some of the red bleeds out of Richie’s vision and then Jake is patting him on the arm and jogging back to his position. 

Eddie hits the ball on the first pitch because he’s Eddie and he’s good at everything he does. Richie, however, takes satisfaction in the way the right fielder catches the pop fly. 

The inning turns over. Varsity is winning with a score of one to nothing. Richie doesn’t care about that, though. He just wants this to be over. He is officially not having fun. No, he’s having the least amount of fun had by anyone literally ever. He’s pissed, he’s embarrassed, and he’s fucking tired. How the fuck is he supposed to play eight more innings of this shit? 

He doesn’t even have time to sit and relax because he’s in this innings lineup. There’re two batters before him, but he’s going to swing this inning no matter what. 

“You excited, bro?” Jake says, sitting down roughly next to Richie. 

Richie gives him a noise of affirmation and he keeps going. “Yeah, me too. I’m pumped to get out there and test my skills. That pitcher is no joke.”

Richie grunts again, pulling on his batting gloves and velcroing them nice and right. Jake shoots him a sideways look and leans back against the concrete backing of the dugout. 

“You know that fall was no big deal, right? We all know what you’re capable of, man,” he says. His voice goes much lower, like it’s something personal and secret between the two of them. When Richie looks over, Jakes eyes are looking right into his and he’s wearing a look that’s crossed between serious and genuine, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Jake means well, he does, but this isn’t only about the fall. Some of it is, yeah, but the other some of it is from the way Marcus and Eddie and Tommy are out on that field acting like hot shit. 

“Yeah,” Richie says after a moment. 

Jake holds fist out and the two of them bump gently. Another piece of the edge comes off of Richie’s thrumming anger. It flakes off and slowly wafts down to the dirt and Richie hopes it will stay down there for the rest of their lives.

The first batter tries his best, he really fucking does, but the pitches come too fast and low for him to hit. He swings and misses three times in a row before he steps out of the box and comes back into the dugout. He doesn’t look upset, though. He’s got a smile on his face like he’s having the best fucking practice in the world. Richie envies him and his optimism. He wishes he could siphon some of it out and inject it into his own veins. Lucky bastard doesn’t know how good he has it. 

Jake goes out next and Richie presses himself up against the chain link. Jake is nothing but excitement and smiles. He’s more than ready to test his skills against the Varsity pitcher. It’s exhilarating for him and Richie has more faith in Jake than he has in his own ability to hold a bat right now. 

The first pitch comes down the center, wound up and spring loaded. Jake brings his bat back and then down, right across the center of the plate. 

The ball bounces back up the middle of the field. It goes and goes and keeps on going until it’s well over the center fielders head. Jake takes off like a rocket. He makes it all the way to second base by the time the ball is making its way infield. 

The dugout goes wild. Boys are lined up against the chain link fence jumping and screaming and shouting Jake’s name. 

Richie feels a surge of pride shoot through him. Even some of the varsity boys are clapping. Jake is the first JV kid to get a nice piece of them and man, it shows. He’s absolutely beaming out there, hands resting on the top of his helmet as he catches his breath. He looks like he owns second base and god damn has he earned it. 

There’s not a doubt in Richie’s mind that by next year Jake will be swinging with the big leagues. 

Richie steps up next. He’s not as driven as he thought he might be. Yeah, he wants to hit the ball but he doesn’t really _care_. He wants to care, kind of. He wants to feel something, the kind of drive he would feel out at a real game or earlier in the season. 

The ball comes down the middle so fast that Richie doesn’t even have time to register it. It passes right through the strike zone before he has a chance to swing.

He’s just so _distracted_ . So pent up and frustrated and over this whole thing. There are so many thoughts flitting around inside of his head, so many emotions that he can’t seem to latch onto any one thing and stick with it. He’s proud of Jake, he wants to prove himself, he wants to hit Marcus, he wants to scream in Eddie’s face, he wants he wants he _wants_. 

The ball comes down a second time and Richie swing hard. He feels the ball graze the top of the bat and a swift metal _shing_ sound rings out between him and the catcher. 

Foul. Strike two. 

He takes a deep breath and steps out of the batter box, giving one gentle practice swing and rolling his neck. Out beyond him, he can hear Jake calling words of encouragement that are echoed by his teammates in the dugout. 

The pitcher winds up and throws. Richie swings again and the ball connects with the bat. However, this time it flies left of the third base line. Fucking _hell_. Another foul. 

He’s not out yet, but the odds aren’t looking good. 

The longer he stands there, the worse it gets. The sun is beating down on him and he can feel sweat begin to pool on his forehead and under his shirt. There are so many things circling him, so many things he doesn’t want to think about but does. He’s so fucking tired of this. When he signed up for baseball, this isn’t what he wanted. Fuck, he didn’t want _any_ of this, not even baseball itself, but here he is. Here he fucking is and he hates it. He hates it so much. 

What finally does it, though, is when Marcus jogs over to Eddie and whispers something in his ear. Eddie’s head falls back with laughter and his eyes crinkle at the sides. It echoes across the field in ways only Richie can hear it. Only he can pick up the venom in that laugh, the arsenic laced throughout it. 

It’s poisoning him. 

When the ball sails down the aisle, Richie somehow harnesses the power of his coach and smacks it straight to shortstop. Eddie is there, ready but not paying attention. His glove flies up in an automatic reflex but instead of grabbing the ball, he only succeeds in knocking it down to the ground. 

That doesn’t matter, though. The ball becomes secondary because instead of running for the base, Richie runs straight at Eddie. Eddie has only seconds to process the attack before Richie is on him, hands jumbled up in his t-shirt and almost lifting him off the ground. Then, he’s being pushed roughly backwards. He goes with such sudden force that he doesn’t have time to catch himself and he sprawls backwards onto the diamond dirt.  

Eddie doesn’t move. At first, he just stays on the ground, propped on his elbows and staring up at Richie. Then, after a second, he clambers to his feet and gets right back in Richie’s face. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Yeah, you know what, I am,” Richie says right back. The two of them crowd each other’s space, eyes narrowed and shoulders squared. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Eddie asks. His voice is high pitched and frantic.

They both look like they’re ready to brawl but in different ways. Richie’s body is pointing forward and his shoulders are looming down over Eddie’s, provoking as much of a reaction as he possibly can. Eddie, on the other hand, looks more defensive. He’s bolstering up against Richie in a way that screams self-preservation. Yeah, he’s ready to fight – and oh, does Richie want him to be – but he also won’t throw the first punch. 

Which is why Richie says, “You’re my problem,” before pushing him again. “This is all just some fucking game to you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, dude, it’s _baseball._ Of course, it’s a fucking game!”

Now, people are starting to crowd around them. The infielders are there by default, all having been too close to avoid it if they wanted to. But the outfielders are starting to crowd, as are the boys from the dugouts. 

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

There are hands on Richie’s shoulders and then a body at his side. Jake is out of breath, but he’s there, holding onto Richie in case he makes another move. 

“Richie, what the hell?” Jake says. He’s frantic and confused but his words don’t even register in Richie’s mind because Eddie cuts in. 

“Actually, I don’t know it. I don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about.”

“Oh, bull –”

“Tozier, Kaspbrak! What the hell is going on?” Coach Lee’s voice booms across the field. All at once, things fall still. No one moves except for the coach as he makes his way across the dirt from the home team dugout. 

“Nothing –”

“I have no –”

They both talk at the same time, words getting lost in each other’s voices while Coach Lee looms over them both. They both turn to face him and shrink under his presence. He isn’t so much big as he is the absolute authority out here.

Without another word, they’re marched off of the field. Both of them gather their things and walk with Coach Lee back toward the school. _This is it,_ Richie thinks, _I’m off the team._

Behind them, the JV coach snaps the team back into attention and the scrimmage carries on. When Richie glances back, Jake is standing in the center of the field, right where they left him. His hands are on his head and he’s watching Richie be marched off to the unknown. 

The door to the locker room slams shut, the noise of which echoes around the space.

“I won’t stand for fighting on my team,” Coach Lee says. His voice is stern and Richie can tell without even looking at him that he’s angry. 

Too bad Richie never knows when to quit. His motor mouth seems to function on its own and it almost always seems hell bent on getting Richie into as much trouble as possible because just as soon as Coach stops talking, Richie says, “Good thing we’re not on the same team.”

“Watch your mouth, Tozier.”

Richie’s mouth snaps shut. Coach Lee’s voice is even harder, more anger seeping from the edges and adding to the pyre that’s burning inside of Richie. “I swear to God, boys. I’ve dealt with plenty of fighting over the years. I will _not_ stand for it. Whatever is going on with you two, sort it out. _Now.”_

“Listen, Coach, I have no idea –” Eddie starts, but he’s quickly cut off. 

“I don’t care. Obviously, something is happening. I wasn’t born yesterday,” he says.

Silence falls over them. The coach watches them both, arms crossed over his chest. They stay like that for a few seconds, and the Coach Lee speaks again. 

“I don’t care what you two have to do to work this out, but if you’re not going to talk then I’m not going to babysit you. Get your things and go home, both of you.”

Richie lets out a harsh breath and goes to his locker. Eddie does the same and for a moment, the only sounds in the room are that of lockers opening and things being pushed hastily into bags. 

“If you two don’t have your shit together by next practice, so help me,” Coach says and then he’s gone. 

Richie isn’t sure where he’s gone, probably back out to the scrimmage. That’s the most logical answer. Richie doesn’t seem to care, though. All he cares about is getting his shit together and getting out of this locker room. Even breathing the same air as Eddie is becoming suffocating.

A locker slams and Richie expects he’ll be alone soon. Good. That’s for the best right now. It’s for the best forever. He doesn’t even want to _look_ at Eddie’s fucking face right now. In fact, if he never sees Eddie again it’ll be too fucking soon. 

“What the hell, Richie?”

Luck is not a thing that stands on Richie’s side of the line. He can feel Eddie’s presence behind him. It’s not too close but there are hazy gray daggers in his shoulder blades. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he grits out because he needs to say something or else Eddie might never leave. They’ll be stuck here in this awful, angry purgatory of expectancy and ignorance. 

Eddie doesn’t get the hint, though. Even when it’s laid out for him, spelled out letter for letter, he just doesn’t fucking get it. 

“What?”

“You heard me. I don’t want to talk to you,” Richie says. He punctuates his point by slamming his own locker closed. “I don’t even want you to fucking look at me.”

“What the hell did I do? Richie, _talk_ to me.” Eddie sounds distraught. His voice is this low-pitched tone of confused and desperate and maybe a twinge of angry. Maybe he’s frustrated. _Good._ Richie wants him to be frustrated. He wants Eddie to get his panties in a bunch over this. Maybe he’ll back the fuck off and leave. 

When he turns around and finally looks at Eddie, he sees hands bunched up into fists at his side. He’s staring Richie down and, well, Richie was right. He _looks_ frustrated. But he also looks like he’s not leaving. 

Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway? He’s so fucking two-faced. So fucking hot and cold. One second he’s with his friends, laughing in Richie’s face or throwing shit around and the next he’s trying to play nice? How the fuck does he have the _audacity_ to look Richie in the eye and demand answers as if _he’s_ the one entitled to them. No. No fucking way. If anyone in this room is entitled to answers, it's Richie. 

“I swear to god, Eddie, _leave me alone_.”

“You started this so stop being a fucking child about it. Spit it out.”

“I’m done fucking talking,” Richie says, lurching forward and getting his hands firmly on Eddie’s chest. He pushes hard, but not as hard as he did out of the field. He doesn’t have as much momentum behind him. Eddie is ready for it this time, only stumbling back as opposed to falling flat on his back.  

“What the fuck!” Eddie yells. He’s startled, that’s for sure, but he doesn’t look at that surprised. There’s a redness to his cheeks that tells Richie that the flames are starting to grow and, damn, is it hot in here or is it just them?

The heat only adds more gasoline. An accelerant that takes Richie’s pent up emotions and lets it explode in uncontrollable bursts. And once it starts, like most things with Richie, it’s hard to contain.  

“Come on, Eddie, hit me! You know you want to!” Richie shouts. His voice is getting louder in the small space, bouncing off of the metal lockers. 

“Richie –”

“Hit me!” Richie follows Eddie backwards, pushing his shoulders again. “Come on!”

“No, I’m not –”

“Do it! Go on!” 

Eddie’s back hits the locker and he stares at Richie, who’s finally stopped walking forward. He’s just standing in the space in front of Eddie, not quite crowding it but not giving him any room to escape either. 

Frantically, Richie raises on arm and points to his nose. “I’m wide open for you, Eddie! Here’s my nose, bloody it on up. Break it if you can!” He moves his finger to his eyes. “Or how about my glasses, yeah? Break ‘em! Shatter them! Gimme a black eye! Why the fuck not?”

He’s getting hysterical, his voice raising into some shrill kind of sobbing laugh as he talks. It’s like he’s some petulant child having a meltdown in a grocery store. Tugging at his hair, stomping his feet, screaming his tiny little head off, he can remember the way he felt like he couldn’t stop once he started. It was this all consuming feeling of commitment – once you start there’s no going back. You really have to lean into it. Balls to the wall or go home, that’s how Richie has always been. He doesn’t half ass anything. No, he whole asses everything even if it’s going to get him killed. And with the way this is going, it just might. 

He points to his lips next. “Here’s my mouth, right here. Wide open. Split my lips. Make blood run down my chin, Eddie. Make me eat my fucking teeth.”

“No, I –”

“Or, wait! Fuck all of that, right? That’s not what you want. Why don’t you break my fucking arm! Yeah, that sounds perfect, doesn’t it!”

_“Stop.”_

“It should have been me, anyway! Is that what this is? Revenge? Well, take it! Hit me, Eddie! Hit me!”

“Stop!” Eddie cries, his voice finally reaching the same volume as Richie’s. Richie finally jumps forward, pushing Eddie back against the lockers. The sound of metal clashing against metal echoes around the room. This time, though, Eddie counters and pushes Richie right back. He gets his hands on Richie’s shoulders and pushes as hard as he can with what little room he has. Richie stumbles backwards but doesn’t fall. His eyes are alive with fright and fire and anger and fear. 

“You hate me! Hit me! Do it!” He screams. His voice is getting raw and broken from yelling, but he doesn’t stop.

“Richie, what – I don’t –”

“Stop lying! Stop!” Spit flies from Richie’s lips. He’s going mad with it all. Going completely crazy with all of the fury inside of him. It’s welling up and spilling over and there’s no stopping it. It scares him, but he isn’t sure what’s worse: not knowing what _he’s_ capable of or not knowing what Eddie’s capable of.  He can’t stop, though. It’s too much. It’s all too much. “C’mon! Wanna be a big man, huh? Wanna talk shit? Hit me! 

“Richie, stop!” Eddie pushes Richie again and then clenches his fists by his side. Richie watches him with hungry eyes, waiting for the first swing to come. 

“There we go! Fight back! Hit me, right here.” Richie points to his lips again, but this time he makes an exaggerated kissing motion and watches the fight come to life in Eddie’s eyes. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Eddie pushes him again and this time it’s Richie who connects with the locker. The two of them have crossed the entirety of the space for the second time, both gaining and advancing on each other in their frantic states. 

“That’s what you are, Kaspbrak. Nothing but a little boy. Can’t follow through, all you do is run with your tail tucked between your legs. You talk big shit for someone who can’t even hit the school fag, yeah?”

Richie pushes him again and Eddie grabs him by the arm, then the collar and slams him against the locker. He looks like he’s about to swing. “Shut up! God, why can't you ever just shut up, Richie!”

“Do it!”

When Richie’s voice is done filling the space, silence settles over them. Richie is completely blocked in by Eddie. They’re breathing into each other’s space, invading it in unwelcome pulses. 

Richie stares at Eddie and Eddie stares back. He looks mad and that’s exactly what Richie wanted. He wanted Eddie to look something other than so fucking _scared_ and then so fucking _smug_ . Every time – every _fucking_ time they were alone it was like Eddie couldn’t even look him in the eyes and then he’d turn around and laugh with his stupid jock friends. 

But now he’s not with his stupid fucking friends and he’s not looking away. No, now he’s _finally_ looking at Richie with something real. Their eyes are burning holes in each other in ways that are painfully satisfying. 

“I hate you,” Richie says, barely audible. 

There’s a hitch of breath and then a soft, “What?” in a broken tone. Like those three words could shatter hearts in the same way children shatter fine china during a reckless game of indoor wrestling. 

The fight drains out of Eddie, then. The fire doused in the ice cold reality of the situation. Slowly, he lets go of Richie’s shirt and lets his arms fall down to his sides. They fall down like leaking balloons

“You’re just like them,” Richie continues, louder now. “Just like everyone else in this fucking school. In this whole fucking town.”

“Richie –”

“Say it to my face, Eddie.” 

“Say what?”

“That you hate me.”

Eddie pauses for a moment, looking Richie over, searching his face for anything that might give him purchase in this. “I don’t hate you.”

A sharp crack echoes through the locker room. Richie doesn’t even realize what made that sound until he feels the delayed sting in his hand. Eddie’s left cheek blooms red and his head is turned to the side, eyes wide with shock. 

“Don’t lie to my face. Stop lying to my face. Stop fucking with me!” Richie hears himself yelling, back to the same volume he’d had only a few moments earlier. It’s hysterical, almost bordering on desperate. 

Eddie backs up, holding his face. When he looks back at Richie, his eyes are red. There are no tears filling them, not yet, but when he speaks his voice sounds wet. “I could never hate you, Richie.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” Richie asks. He doesn’t mean to say it, but he does. It comes out broken and bruised and desperate. And once it comes, just like before, there’s no stopping it. “I just – I don’t understand. It’s like you’re playing these fucking games with me!”

“I’m not!” Eddie’s voice is loud, but it doesn’t have that same angry quality it did before. Instead, it’s tremblingly loud. It quivers compared to Richie’s shouting. 

“You are!”

“I’m not, Richie, I promise I’m not,” Eddie says. 

Instead of swinging again, this time with a closed fit instead of an open one, Richie tangles his fingers through his hair. The bun on the top of his head comes loose, half of the hair falling out of the side and the other remaining in a shitty, lopsided mess. The noise that comes out of his mouth is something between a scream and a grunt. “That’s bullshit and we both know it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah? You don’t? Okay, sure,” Richie laughs, high pitched and manic. “Then riddle me this, asshole, why the fuck did you throw me into some lockers, call me a faggot, and then kiss me? What the fuck was that, huh? Riddle me _that_!”

Eddie goes silent. His mouth does a pretty epic imitation of a fish out of water and he shakes his head dumbly before he manages a weak, “I don’t – _what_ – you’re not making any sense.”

“You lying piece of shit!” 

Richie makes another grunting shout before he pushes past Eddie. He grabs his bag off the floor and bee lines it straight for the door. He makes it maybe halfway there, eyes blind with frustration and rage, before he feels someone grab his elbow. 

“Richie, wait, can we please _talk!”_

“No! I don’t want to talk to you! I’m _done_ talking.”

He pulls his arm free and tries to keep walking but Eddie grabs him again, this time by the shoulder, and spins him around. 

_“Please.”_

“You want to talk? Fine, sure, let’s talk,” Richie shouts, shrugging himself out of Eddie’s grasp for the second time. “Let’s talk about how you’re just like every other boy in this fucking school.” Richie pushes him again, but it’s weak, like all of the fight is slowly draining out of him. “Let’s talk about how you walk away from friends. About how you just fucking ghosted me like I was nothing. You pretended to look right through me for _years_ and now here we are, and you’re talking to me like I’m _finally_ worth talking to but you even now – even fucking now – I’m still just something you can throw away. You’re never going to change, are you? I’m always going to be second rate. Too much of a dorky outcast for the high and mighty Edward Kaspbrak. You probably go back to your jock ass friends and laugh about me, don’t you? ‘You should have seen his face when I pushed him, _ha, ha, ha_! He looked so fucking hurt! What a freak!’ Is that what you do, Eddie? Tell me, I can take it!”

By the time he finishes he’s entirely out of breath and huffing. His face is burning and hands are clenched so tightly at his sides that they hurt. 

“No, Richie,” Eddie says like he’s also out of breath. He takes another step forward and reaches out for Richie, but his hands get slapped away just as fast as they reach out. “I promise, I don’t do that. I would _never_ do that.”

He looks like he’s going to say something else, but it never comes. Instead, he just stares at Richie all wide eyed and hurt. Good, he should feel hurt. He should feel two times what he’s put Richie through the past few weeks. It serves him right. 

“Fuck you, Eddie. You walk around this place like you own it, like you’re king of the fucking castle, but you’re not,” Richie says. His tone is final. He’s done. He’s so fucking done. Eddie has the fucking _gall_ to stand there and act like he’s done nothing wrong. _No, Richie, I would never do that_ except he has. He’s done it over and over and over again. And, what? He expects Richie to just look the other way? To just lay down and take it like a fucking doormat? No. No fucking way. This is over. This ends now. 

He makes it all the way to the door this time, even puts his hand on the handle and begins to pull when he hears Eddie talk. “I was drunk! I was _drunk_ and I didn’t know what to do so I ran and I thought you wouldn’t remember. We were both so drunk, _please_. I’m _sorry,_ can we please just forget about it? I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know I hurt you,” His voice cracks on the last word. 

This stops Richie in his tracks. The door, not open more than an inch, clicks back shut. When he turns around, he can see Eddie is crying now. His hands are shaking where he’s holding them at his chest. “What?”

“I remember everything,” Eddie whispers, wet and scared and desperate. 

“Wow,” Richie scoffs. “And you lied through your fucking teeth?”

“Richie.”

“Don’t.”

“I was _scared_ ,” Eddie sobs. “You were never scared and I was _always_ scared and I just couldn’t handle it anymore – I didn’t know what to do! It was so fucking _bad._ I thought maybe if I just ignored you, if I just ignored everything, things would get better. Bowers would leave me alone and I would stop getting bullied and I could just survive the rest of middle and high school.”

He stops for a second, waiting to see what Richie would do next. Richie wants the same thing. He wants to know what Eddie is going to do next so he waits and watches as the boy in front of him shakes. 

“I miss you,” he continues after a second. “When you joined the team, I was so happy because I thought maybe we could be friends again. And then I went and fucked it all up _again_ . I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not then, not now, not ever. You were my best friend and I fucked it all up. _Please_ , Richie, don’t hate me.”

The ball is in Richie’s court now. It bounces lifelessly to his feet and he watches it roll ever so slowly before it comes to a stop. If he could pick it up, he would. If it were a real, physical object he would pick it up and hold it and just stare at Eddie while he tries to process everything that was spilled out. 

Deep down, he already knew that stuff. Eddie ran. Just like he always did. Just like he maybe always will. He ran off with his tail tucked between his legs. But now, he’s not running. Now, he’s sniffling and shaking in front of him in this empty room with nothing to protect him except his own poorly planned lies. 

“What about me?” Richie says, finally. 

The door is right there. Richie could go through it if he wanted to. He could walk through it and leave this entire conversation behind. He could leave Eddie behind – for good this time. But he doesn’t. Something sick and curious and desperate inside of him wants to know what Eddie still has to say.

“I’ll fix this,” Eddie says. “How can I fix this? Tell me what I have to do and _I’ll do it_.”

Another sob, soft but crushing, rips through Eddie. He’s not completely gone, but the tears are streaming down his face in steady waterfalls of sorrow and regret. Richie watches them hit the concrete floor with some level of fascination. 

“Why did you lie to me?” Richie asks. It’s been burning at him for so long, he has to know. He’s got nothing to lose from finally asking it. The fires have already been lit, the city burned. Eddie just has to answer it. “About the kiss. Why did you say you didn’t remember? You could have just said you didn’t know, but you lied.”

Eddie takes a deep breath in through his nose and exhales. His lower lip quivers once, a jagged shake that is beyond his control, before he answers, “I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” Richie says. 

Eddie doesn’t answer. He just looks at the ground, blonde hair falling into his face, and Richie decides he’s had enough. 

The screech of the door opening and closing is louder than either of them could ever be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys it’s time for round two of “can you spot the canon!” I have two pieces in here and it makes me insanely happy. 
> 
> You guys asked for more substance from Eddie so... here we are! 
> 
> This is my last week before I go back to school (boo!). I’m going into my third and final year of graduate school (yay!) so I’ll be balancing classes, two jobs, and a 20hr/week internship and working literally 7 days a week (boo!) so I’m warning you all now…. Updates for this might slow down (I say as if they were ever coming quick in the first place lmao). I’m hoping for semi steady updates at least in sept/oct but I know for a fact once Nov/Dec hits I’m going to be extremely burnt out and probably take a hiatus from everything fandom related. I do it every semester. When that happens, I’ll be sure to post on my Tumblr and shit but if this fic ever lulls for a long period of time this is why. It’s not abandoned I promise. I just wanna warn y’all well in advance. 
> 
> But for now I’m here and so is this chapter! Let’s all cry together!


	12. I'm Not A Math Major, God Dammit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This doesn’t solve any of my problems,” Richie says. 
> 
> “Duh, dipshit,” Stan says. “It’s not supposed to. I’m just saying – I don’t know. Maybe don’t be so quick to write him off? Like, yeah hold him at arm’s length or whatever he’s done some shitty things but I think everyone in this room can understand."

Bev is sweaty when she comes out through the front doors of the school. She looks exhausted amidst the pack of the other theater kids. Betty trails behind her, a hand firmly on the strap of her own show bag and a smile on her face. She’s talking to some guy Richie never cared to learn the name of. Apparently, he’s the one and only Bugsy and if Richie’s being honest with himself, Bugsy is probably going to be this kid’s nickname for the rest of their high school career. Real names are overrated at this point anyway. 

Bev laughs at something one of them says. Richie can’t hear anything but he sees lips moving and grand hand movements while one of them mouths off about something or another. It’s only vaguely interesting to him, mostly he’s just waiting for Bev to make her way over to his car. 

She does, eventually, finding herself right at home with a buckle strapped tight against her chest. She looks even more worn down up close and Richie has no idea how she does it. Yeah, baseball is tiring and all but he’s never looked like _this_ after a practice or a game. She’s got hair plastered to her forehead and her skin shines from a thousand layers of sweat. 

“Jesus, who hit you with a bus?” He asks, turning his engine over and pulling out of the parking space. 

“Sorry we don’t all get to stand in the grass and look pretty all day,” She says back, not missing a beat.  

“Hey, it takes a lot of effort to look this good.” He runs a hand through his hair for emphasis and shoots a wink over to her side of the car. She doesn’t see it, though. She’s too busy shaking her own hair out of her ponytail and running her fingers through the thick mane. 

“Yeah, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” She shakes her head again and then starts to ruffle through her bag. 

Even when she’s a disgusting, sticky mess, she’s beautiful. 

“She sounds like she’s driving better,” Bev says. The truck rumbles beneath them as Richie drives through the small, lackluster town of Derry. 

“Weather’s not as frigid as your dad’s asshole anymore,” Richie says and Bev bursts into a fit of cackles. Her hand flies over the center console and lightly smacks Richie’s arm. There’s a split second where he considers grabbing her and holding her hand hostage, but he thinks better of it. The road bends ahead in staggeringly sharp ways and he’d rather not fuck around, especially not with her in the car. 

“She’s gonna bite the dust one day.”

“Shut your _whore mouth!_ Holy shit, Bev, you can’t just say shit like that, she can hear you!” Richie makes a show of reaching out to run his hand soothingly over the dashboard. He makes a series of shushing noises before saying, “She didn’t mean it, sweetheart. I promise. Bev is jealous that she’ll never have a car as wonderful and reliable as you.”

“Oh, shu t it,” Bev says with a playful roll of her eyes. Then, her expression changes almost immediately and she says, “You know, you never told me how the rest of the party went. Stan said he found you absolutely loaded up in the guest room or something. Took you home while you vommed and cried all over yourself.”

_Shit_. Richie should have known this would come back around eventually. Yeah, it’s been a few weeks but it hasn’t been long enough for everyone to forget about the whole ordeal. Everyone, of course, being him, Stan, and Bev. 

Everyone has been unusually quiet about it. Sometimes, it was comforting. Richie didn’t have to go out of his way to explain a story he’d rather not talk about. Other times, though, it was unsettling. There were very few secrets between the three of them and that night was bigger than it seemed. It was a series of things building and building and then exploding in ways that neither Stan nor Bev knew about. Guilt was peeling at the lining of his stomach in nauseating ways. Out of nowhere he would feel himself rolling over and over about it, knowing he should tell them but not knowing _how_. And every time it came up, like with Stan the day of his hangover, it was easily brushed off. Easier in some ways to lie by omission, harder in other ways to lie at all. 

Bev looked stern, though. Her eyebrows were knitted together and there was a crease running from her hairline practically down to her chin, splitting her face in perfect symmetry. It was her _I’m not fucking around with you_ look. She knows he’s keeping something from her. He knows she knows. She knows he knows she knows. It’s all one giant fucking cycle and even if he doesn’t tell her right now, he’s going to have to tell her eventually, even if it’s just to stop his conscious from trying to claw its way out of his fucking throat. 

“Yeah, uh,” he starts and then stops. His hand absently comes up to scratch at the back of his head. His fingers tangle in the loose curls and tug momentarily before he goes on. “I had a rough night. Some shit went down while you guys were off with your boo-thangs.”

“Oh, shit.” Now she’s leaning over the center console, elbows digging into the old leather and chin placed firmly in one hand. “What happened?”

“Uh,” Richie grips the steering wheel a little tighter and slows the car down. The bend in the road is sharp and he takes it slow, feeling his truck creak and shift with the change in direction. “I might have had a run in with Eddie upstairs.”

Something in his voice shakes and it causes an earthquake in the car. Bev is rumbling in an instant and it reminds him of the last time they talked about Eddie like this. It’s not a conversation he necessarily wants to repeat, even when he’s still mad about it. He doesn’t want Bev to fly off the handle and do something he doesn’t want because right now, he has no clue what he wants. He’s already done more than he thought he would and now it’s landed him here, a little less angry but a little more frustrated. It’s confusing and loud and he doesn’t want it to get louder. 

“You’ve got to be fucking _kidding_ me,” Bev says, incredulous.  “Look, I’m sorry I brushed it off the first time but we can’t let him get away with this, again. He can’t be the team captain if he’s gonna go around being a homophobic prick. It’s twenty fucking nineteen”

“He didn’t –” 

“No, I’m serious, Richie,” She continues, completely bull dozing his attempt to speak. “We have to go to your coach. I’ll go with you and we can explain it all together. What did he do this time?”

“Bev, please,” he says, tightening his grip on the wheel as he slows the truck down. The road bends in merciless ways in front of him and he takes it slow and gentle. 

“Richie, we can’t keep letting this happen. Twice is two times too many!”

“I know – can we just,” He pauses, not sure how he wants to continue. Can we just do what? What is it he wants out of all of this? What does he want to do? 

A small thought passes through his mind, three is better than two. 

“Text Stan and tell him to meet us at my place.” He can see Bev shoot him a strange look from the corner of his eye but she pulls her phone out all the same. “Just – I don’t want to have this conversation twice.”

She settles down in her seat and looks out the passenger window. The car is quiet for a moment, save for the gentle hum of Sugartown coming from the speakers. 

“I just hate seeing you hurt,” She says. Her hand settles over his on the wheel for a second before falling back down to her lap. 

Stan was home when Bev texted him, so he’s already in Richie’s driveway when they pull in. His empty car sits behind his father’s car and Richie pulls in beside him, careful not to block him in. 

When they get inside, Stan is sitting at the dining room table with Maggie. He’s got a black mug in front of him, steam dancing in between them as they talk idly. Richie can hear Maggie asking him about school and Stan saying something true but neutral in response. It’s small talk, but Richie knows Maggie cares about Stan in the same ways she cares about Bev. It’s gentle and nonintrusive, but genuine all the same. 

“Bev, Richie!” She calls when they shut the front door, “How was school?”

“Fine, ma,” Richie says as Stan turns to stand. 

He grabs his mug from the table and smiles at Maggie before saying, “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Tozier.”

And then they’re gone. Up the stairs and into the privacy of Richie’s bedroom. Maggie calls after them as they go, saying something about dinner in an hour and how Bev and Stan are both welcome to stay. 

The second they’re all in the room, Richie sits down in the desk chair near the bed. Stan places his mug on the nightstand and Bev closes the door behind them. It’s just the three of them, now, quiet and comfortable with something big looming in the spaces between. Something Richie wants out in the open, something he didn’t even know was eating at him until it became too big to ignore. 

Stan doesn’t quite throw himself on to the bed the way Bev does. She flopped down, bouncing once or twice before settling and rolling onto her side. Stan, on the other hand, crawls onto the bed, arms first and then knees. He makes his way up to the head of the bed and leans his back against the wall. The second he’s settled, Bev scooches closer and drapes the top of her body across his legs. Automatically, his right hand settles in her hair and begins to twirl it. 

They both stare at Richie, waiting for the words to come out. It isn’t quite tense in the room but there is something between them. Something shared yet unspoken. There is no judgment in their eyes, no impatience or rowdy jokes. These moments come so few and far between – the ones not masked by jokes and hair pulling and crude nicknames. This is one of them. This is a chance for someone to bare their soul and despite Richie not letting on an ounce of the gravity of the situation, both of his friends can read him like a magazine. He’s big letters with catchy headlines and scandalous pictures; but if you read between the lines a little bit you might get something with a little more substance. 

That’s all Richie was, after all. Substance shrouded by masks. 

“I have to tell you guys something,” he starts. His mouth is dry and it tastes like the burger he had for lunch. Small flecks of beef are probably stuck between his teeth, little leftovers that, when given the chance, invade his sense of security and upset the balance in his mouth. It’s useless information. Completely irrelevant to what’s happening right now but he can’t stop thinking about it. It makes him want a glass of water, makes him want to do anything other than what he’s about to do. 

When he looks at them again, instead of down at his feet or his walls or literally anywhere else, he can see the love in their eyes – the trust – and he knows that he can tell them. He’s not even sure why he’s so anxious about it in the first place. It’s not like this is even about him. He didn’t do anything wrong here. He’s not the bad guy. Hell, he’s not even sure if Eddie is the bad guy but he can’t keep lying about this. He can’t keep doing this on his own because at this rate, the whiplash of it all is gonna put him in a neck brace. 

“The night of the party,” he continues, hands idly finding each other in his lap. His fingers pick at the skin around his nails and his teeth worry the dried skin of his lower lip until it falls off. “When I ran off and Stan found me upstairs a little while later.”

He stops again, thinking about how to say it.  Stan and Bev look even more interested now. Stan’s back is hardly touching the wall as he leans over Bev. It’s not drastic, but Richie can tell that he has his full attention. Bev has also picked her head up. She hasn’t moved from her place on top of Stan’s legs but she’s looking more intent, now. In some ways, she’s been waiting for this. They both have. Stan since the party and Bev, well, Bev since the car ride here. 

“I was with Eddie.”

The statement isn’t definitive, but in some ways, it is. He was with Eddie. He was _with_ Eddie, too, for a moment, but he doesn’t quite know how to say that.

“You were alone when I found you,” Stan says. It’s so matter of fact but Richie can read between Stan’s lines. _You were alone when I found you so what did he do to you?_

Richie told Stan about the first incident not long after he told Bev. He didn’t react as aggressively as she did but he was concerned. He got this distant look in his eye, a little dark and a little contemplative, before taking Richie out for a burger. It didn’t solve the issue but it was nice to sit with Stan and talk, even after the subject changed. 

“Yeah, uh.” Another start and stop. Another grasp for words. “I, uh.” He scans the room again, avoiding the looks that are being thrown in his direction. “He –”

“Richie, what happened?” Bev asks. Her voice isn’t that same fiery blaze from earlier. It’s calm now, coaxing.

Why is this such a big deal? Why is he making this such a fucking show? Eddie kissed him and then ran away and Richie got upset about it. Of course he got upset! Eddie was his best friend, ghosted him for _years_ , pushed him into a set of lockers, and then fucking kissed him after obliterating Stan and Mike at the pong table. It’s been a game of hot and cold for so long. It’s been so much. It’s been so fucking – 

“He kissed me,” he blurts out. “I ran into him in the bathroom upstairs and he was crying or some shit so I tried to be nice and help him and then we talked for a little while, I think? And then at some point he kissed me and just ran out of there and I think I was so drunk that I didn’t even know how drunk I was because when he left, I got really dizzy and –” he stops to take a break but the words keep tumbling out of him, an unstoppable force of nervous energy mixed with relief. 

“That’s when Stan found me. I didn’t wanna come downstairs so I hung out in some room and the whole thing was really intense so I freaked out. And then – you know, at school, I asked him about it and he said he blacked out but when we got into that fight he told me he remembered and he lied because he was scared but I’m scared, too, so how is that fair? Why does he get to be scared but I have to be not scared?  The whole thing is just so fucked up. He’s acting like he’s the only person in the world right now, like he’s not fucking with me or something.”

Bev and Stan start talking almost instantaneously. 

“You got into a fight? What kind of fight? Like, did you hit him? Did he hit you?”

“Holy shit, Richie, that’s fucking crazy? Why did he kiss you, did he say? Do you think he’s targeting you?”

Richie only just barely manages to listen to the cross talk. His mind is going at ten thousand miles a second and he can’t really tell up from down so he focuses in on the first thing he heard. 

“I kind of lost my shit on him at practice and started screaming in his face – saying all this shit about how I hated him and how I wanted him to hit me. He wouldn’t, though. We both got sent home but we kept fighting in the locker room.”

“What did he say to you?” Bev asks.

“Which time?”

“The kiss – the locker room. Either, really.”

“I don’t remember what he said in the bathroom,” Richie says and it’s not a lie. He doesn’t remember much about that night. It’s all a blur of bright lights and desperate feelings. Maybe he said something about missing someone or feeling something but Richie can’t place it. There’s too much rattling around in his head for him to place the empty details. “When we were fighting, he just kept saying that he didn’t hate me. I asked him about the kiss and he told me he didn’t know what I was talking about but when I went to leave he told me he was drunk and scared and hoped I didn’t remember it. He was like, crying and shit, begging me not to leave.”

The room goes quiet for a second and Richie takes what feels like his first breath of fresh air in weeks. The world around him starts to slow down, not by much but enough for him to feel some of the tension ease out of his shoulders and chest. 

Finally, Stan asks, “Have you guys spoken since?”

“Nah,” Richie waves his hand. “Kinda feel like I have to stand my ground, now. I basically told him to fuck off and that I never wanted to talk to him again.”

“Would you wanna talk to him?” Stan asks again, always inquisitive. It’s a good question and it’s something that’s been on Richie’s mind since the whole thing happened. Does he want to talk to Eddie? Does he want to see him again? If he doesn’t, this whole thing is his chance to make that all happen. 

He’s got every reason in the world to cut Eddie off. It wouldn’t be too hard, either. It’s not like they talk or run in the same friend groups. Richie could just pretend like they never started talking again in the first place. Two strangers who play for the same department. Two strings running parallel to each other, never touching. 

Whenever he thinks of that, though, he can’t help but remember Eddie’s face in that locker room. 

“Kind of? I feel bad about the whole thing but at the same time, fuck him. Like, I hate him and I don’t.” 

“I don’t know, Rich, I don’t think you should. I mean, come on. He’s made your life nothing but hell this year. Even when you thought he was being nice, he always turned around and pulled some bullshit stunt. This is just another chance for him to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Stan cuts in before Richie has a chance to respond. “But I think we need to look at this from his point of view. He told you he was scared, which makes him running away when he kissed you make sense. And the lying, too.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.” Bev sounds more annoyed than sympathetic. Her eyes are fixed on Richie’s and they’re blazing again. She looks about ready to get in Richie’s car and drive to Eddie’s house herself. 

Too bad that wouldn’t go over very well. Mrs. Kaspbrak would lose her damn mind to see a girl as beautifully dangerous as Bev on her doorstep ranting about her precious little Eddie-kins. 

“No, it doesn’t, but we can at least try and understand what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that he’s a jock asshole who’s got it out for Richie because he’s bi.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Bev grunts and rolls her eyes before adjusting herself so she can look directly up at Stan. “Then what is it, if you’re so smart?”

Stan rolls his eyes but never once takes his hand out of Bev’s hair. It stays planted at the base of her head, fingers gently massaging the skin there and pulling back every now and then to twirl the ringlets of red that gather at the nape of her neck. 

“Well, to be blunt about it, I think Eddie has a crush on Richie.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Can you even hear yourself right now?”

Bev and Richie talk at the same time and their words get tangled up into some kind of illegible mess. The sentences sound less like they’re supposed to and more like _can you even fucking serious yourself right now?_

Which, in some ass backwards kind of way, makes sense. What the fuck is Stan even talking about? 

“Think about it, guys. He’s practically pulling pigtails.”

Now it’s Richie’s turn to level him with a drawn out look because what the fuck does that mean? Eddie’s been a complete asshole because he likes him? That’s bullshit. It’s such bullshit because how does that make everything okay? He is supposed to be flattered by the way Eddie’s been treating him? Is he supposed to fall down onto his knees, eager to suck off the dude who’s been making his life hell for the past few months?

No fucking way, Jose. Not in a million years. Eddie doesn’t _get_ to like Richie. 

“That’s fucked,” Richie says to fill the space.

Bev has gone quiet again, staring up at the ceiling. She’s got a small crease between her eyebrows as she studies the dull paint at the top of the room. 

“I don’t know,” Stan continues. “It makes sense. Eddie being gay, I mean.”

Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes in the process. It’s not a mean roll, not really. It’s just something that happens automatically, something that takes over in an almost full body motion. “Oh, okay. I see. So now we’re going to play into ‘jock bully is actually secretly gay and closeted’ trope, right?”

“Hey,” Stan’s left arm goes up in defense and his eyebrows shoot all the way up into his hairline, “I didn’t say it went and completely absolved him of all the fucked up shit he’s done. I’m just saying that it makes sense if we look at it.”

“Well, I don’t think it does so I’m going to need you to spell it out for me, Doctor Brain.”

“Besides everything you just told us? Well, for starters the room has always had some kind of weird tension while you both were in it – even before this shit happened.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Like you two were avoiding each other but really poorly. Like that time we all ended up at the diner together? Eddie and Ben or whatever were sitting a few booths down from us and he kept pretending not to look at you. And the whole time it just felt so weird. Thick, you know?”

“You’re not making sense, Stanny,” Richie says, but he remembers that day clearly. He wouldn’t go so far as to say Eddie’s presence was upsetting. It was just… weird? Seeing Eddie at school was one thing but outside? No way. Besides, Eddie was probably just looking at him because he felt guilty, not because he’s got it hard for Richie. 

“He latched onto you that one time at practice,” Stan continues with yet another poor example. 

“That doesn’t count, there was no one else left to pair up with and he was teaching me shit.”

“Okay, we’ll just let go of the fact that he has tons of friends he could have paired with on the varsity team but whatever. Why else would he kiss you, though? That part just doesn’t make any sense.”

“He ran out of the party like a bat out of hell,” Bev cuts in, “Took Ben with him. It was like, really sudden, you know? He practically tumbled down the stairs and B-lined it straight to Ben. I think he was having a panic attack, he was gasping for air and looked frantic as hell. I didn’t hear what he said but he took Ben and they left.”

“Wow, can’t believe Kaspbrak cockblocked you,” Richie says with a smirk. He leans into it for a second, letting the automatic jokes override the implications of her words, “Bet you guys were just getting to the good part, yeah?”

“Beep-beep,” she says and then looks back up at Stan as if to say _go on_. 

Well, looks like this is going to be a losing battle. For a moment there, Richie really thought Bev was on his side but watching her motion for Stan to keep talking tells him that she – at the very least – is willing to hear what he has to say about this. 

“Listen, you guys are grasping at straws here. Nothing about these _isolated incidents_ has anything to do with Eddie K wanting to get down and dirty with the big D.”

Stan looks down at Bev for a moment and then back up at Richie. He takes a slow breath in and smiles before talking.

“Tell me, Richie, why exactly did Bowers break Eddie’s arm?” Stan says it with a smug look on his face. He leans back against the wall again and just smirks at Richie like he’s got it all figured out. It sparks something defiant inside of Richie, something that begs to not let Stan win another round of _Who Read the Room Right._

“Because he’s an asshole!” Richie shouts. “He’s a fucking bully who got off on making our lives hell twenty-four seven!”

“Duh,” Stan follows, “But tell me _why_. What did he say to you guys in the bathroom? Bowers is a fuckface, we know that. But he always has a reason. Even if the reason is that he didn’t like the way you looked that day. And he always made a point of telling you before he ruined your day.”

Richie knows Stan’s right. He’s had his own fair share of run-ins with the Bowers Gang over the years. Richie has a distinct memory of Bowers rubbing Stan’s _Jew face_ into the snow because, as he had put it loud and clear for everyone to hear, _you look good today, Stan. Hope you don’t mind if I add a little something to your outfit._

The something was blood. 

“He called us queers. Saw us go into the bathroom together and accused us of fuckin’ in there. That’s when it all happened.”

Stan’s expression shifts from smug pride to sympathy. He’s right, they all know he’s right, but the cost of being right can sometimes be too high. And even though that day is done and over with, it doesn’t stop the echoes from bouncing around in Richie’s head. 

“Eddie has seen every terrible thing that happens at this school. He sees it because we all see it. He’s seen you get bullied, he’s seen Adrian and Don get bullied. Hell, _he’s_ been bullied. Bowers broke Eddie’s arm because he _thought_ Eddie was gay. That alone could have been enough to keep him in the closet. Why the hell would he come out if he could save himself from all of that?”

“I’m doing it. Adrian’s doing it. We get along _just fine._ ” 

“Not everyone is as strong as you are,” Stan says. 

Richie sighs and leans back against the back of his chair. It tips back slightly and he lets his body fall back with it. The new angle stretches his chest and stomach out, lights up some nerve endings that had gone numb with the way he’s been slouching for the past twenty or so minutes. His hands come up and rub at his face and he takes one deep breath in, the muscles of his body stretching even further, before he slowly lets it out. His body slowly, gently sags back to its original position and his hands rub down the length of his face. When he’s done, they’re both staring at him, waiting. 

Eddie might be gay. 

The possibility of it rolls around in his mind for a moment, gets his tongue a little wet with the taste of it. He hates to admit it, but Stan might be onto something here. It makes a little bit of sense. 

Richie can remember how terrified he was when he realized he was bisexual. It was as if something inside of him broke. He never had to be worried about being full on gay because he always had crushes on every girl in his grade. Sure, boys were cute but he never really thought too hard about that. _Everyone_ was cute. 

He was in seventh grade the day he realized it. Everyone was talking about the new girl at school. Audra was cute as all can be for a middle schooler. Everyone wanted to date her. Richie did, too. He really did. He just never really had the chance to sit down and talk with her. They had none of the same classes together and didn’t sit at the same lunch table. 

He would stare at her from across the room and all of his middle school friends would talk about her. She had pretty black hair that curled like it was out of a magazine, bright blue eyes that stole the entire show from everyone, pretty pink lips that were kissable – if, you know, you weren’t afraid of cooties – and she always had the cutest outfits. Richie adored her for a moment. 

Eventually, though, his attention wandered. Which, if anyone asked anyone is on brand for Richie Tozier. He didn’t even really notice he was doing it. The conversations around him kept going but he got less and less involved. _Oh, I love her skirt today, I wonder what it would be like to hold her hand, the new x-men movie is coming out I should ask her_ all went in one ear and out the other. 

Still, he stared. 

Just, you know. Not at Audra. 

What ended up catching his eye was brown hair, broad shoulders, and pearly white teeth. Peter Gordon sat next to Audra during lunch. Peter Gordon would smile and laugh and put his arm around her shoulders. And when Richie felt jealousy, it wasn’t because of Peter. It was because of Audra. 

She ended up dating Peter Gordon, actually. They didn’t last long but Richie remembers how it felt for those few weeks. It was like the five stages of grief, only faster.

He can remember the fear and frustration and how it felt to feel broken. He could live with being gay, that wasn’t really the issue. The issue was that he liked _both_. He hated liking both. It made him _weird_ and _gross_ and _selfish._ Some of those words he slung at himself, some were slung by others, but they all hit him hard for the first year or two. As much as he claimed to be proud and loud about it, it took him until high school to really come to terms with it. A little bit of soul searching, some supportive parents, and some great friends go a long way. 

Eddie doesn’t really have that though, does he? If he really is gay then he definitely doesn’t have the right people around him. Bowers has always been a problem, a horrific constant in their lives, but Marcus and Tommy? Yeah, fuck that. If Eddie’s gay and he has to listen to that from his own teammates then no duh he’s hiding in the closet. Not to mention Sonia. God, Richie has no idea what kind of shit she fills Eddie’s head with nowadays but he can remember it being awful when they were little. Eddie thought he had asthma for Christ’s sake. Which, like, is a perfectly real condition and it’s not an issue to have it. Except Eddie doesn’t have it, which he’s proved time and time again to be the case. 

Richie can only hope that asthma is the worst thing that Sonia has ever forced on Eddie. 

“Okay, so what if he is gay?” Bev’s voice breaks through the silence of Richie’s thoughts and his attention immediately turns to her. 

“Nothing, I guess,” Stan answers with a shrug. “I’m just saying. I think he’s gay and I think he likes Richie and I think that maybe he’s a little fucked up over it, you know? Coming out is hard, you guys remember how fucked up I got.”

Richie and Bev hum in unison, not letting the memories of that time shadow the room for too long. Stan has come a long way since then. He’s way less closeted, both in the gay way and the emotional way. Stan might not share a lot on the surface but Richie and Bev have him pegged better than Mike ever could. _Wink wink_. 

“This doesn’t solve any of my problems,” Richie says. 

“Duh, dipshit,” Stan says. “It’s not supposed to. I’m just saying – I don’t know. Maybe don’t be so quick to write him off? Like, yeah hold him at arm’s length or whatever he’s done some shitty things but I think everyone in this room can understand.”

“And what if he’s not gay?” Bev asks. It’s borderline accusatory but it’s also genuinely curious. She’s asking the kinds of questions that Richie needs answers to but can’t figure out how to ask. 

For the most part, cat's got his tongue. 

“Then he can eat my entire fucking ass, that’s what if,” Richie spits. 

Well, not his entire tongue. 

There’s still lingering anger in his body. Little white sparks that flare up every now and then. They don’t consume him whole like they did the day of their fight, but they’re persistent enough that they could if they wanted to. It’s easy to get angry and stay angry. It’s easy to joke and laugh and ignore. It’s all so much easier. 

Bev’s laugh pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks over to his two best friends and decides that they look comfortable, all tangled together. He wants in. The bed is only big enough for three people if they’re practically on top of each other, so it’s really convenient that neither of them complain when he crawls his way over to line himself up with Stan, small spooning himself before he reaches for his TV remote. 

Neither of them ends up staying for dinner. Stan’s parents have dinner and a movie at home planned for him and Bev has to get her laundry done before tomorrow so they leave together, Stan offering to drop her off on the other side of town so Richie doesn’t have to go back out. 

They don’t bring up the conversation again, at least not outside of the safety of the three of them. If Stan says anything else, it’s in hushed words under the buzz of the cafeteria. Bev shoots him looks on his way to and from practice, but otherwise is quiet about the whole thing. It isn’t too much, but it also isn’t enough to let him forget and try to sweep it all under the rug. No, that would be too easy. Nothing can ever be easy for Richie Tozier, can it? People can’t just cut him a fucking break? 

Nah. Breaks are for the weak, apparently, because it’s only a few days later that he feels his resolve really start to crumble. He might have built up a little bit of sympathy for Eddie but he wasn’t planning on talking to him. Give him a few weeks and maybe this whole thing could blow over enough for the two of them to sling casual insults back and forth but this is wildly out of Richie’s zone of experience. It’s still fresh, despite the sympathy in his veins. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Eddie is saying. Well, saying is a mild word, more like screaming it. Or sobbing, or moaning, or something loud and dramatic and unavoidable. “I won’t be able to play anymore.”

Someone says something much more rational and quieter behind the lockers. Richie can’t see who it is – he can’t even see Eddie – but he knows it’s someone on the varsity team. Not one of those mega shlongs, either. A no-name that he’d be able to recognize by face but not voice. 

“No, I’m serious!”

There’s more quiet chatter and then the sound of a locker door slamming, followed by a choked sob of frustration. 

It’s hard to ignore, no matter how badly he wants to. Eddie’s voice grates of the border of pathetic and annoying and no matter how aggressively Richie takes off his shirt and puts his jersey on, the rustling of fabric isn’t loud enough to drown it out. 

“I just don’t understand it! What the fuck do I even need this shit for, anyway? I’m not trying to be a fucking _math major_.”

More words of comfort, except this time Richie can vaguely make out, “C’mon, Ed. It’s not that big of a deal, I’m sure coach will, like, give you a pass or something.”

“He can’t,” Eddie says back, voice climbing up another octave, “He’s given me like, two passes already.”

“For what?”

_“Trig.”_

“Yeah, but you didn’t fail trig. You pulled out with a C! There’s still hope!”

Oh. So, that’s what this is about. Eddie’s failing math. And if he was failing trig last semester that means he’s probably failing calculus this semester. 

The voices fade away again and Richie tries to keep going about his routine. He pulls on his tan pants and starts to loop the belt around his waist. He gets _maybe_ as far as buckling it before Eddie starts back up again. Louder, this time. 

“I can’t not play! I need this fucking sport, man. Baseball is _my entire life.”_

Fucking fuck. God dammit. God dammit. This is what he gets. This is seriously what he gets for being a nice person. Even through everything, at the end of all of it, he can’t _not_ do something. Not when he knows he has what Eddie needs. 

Eddie sounds like a goddamn kicked puppy. His voice is that quiet kind of hysterical that screams anxiety attack. I mean, fuck, Richie can hear the hyperventilating from across the room. 

It only lasts for maybe two minutes before he decides he can’t take it anymore. He can’t, he really can’t. He’s gonna snap, or cry, or fucking melt into the floor if he has to listen to this for another fucking second. 

It’s a pathetic sniffing noise that drives him over the edge. He doesn’t slam his locker shut, but he does stalk around the row of lockers to where Eddie is standing with swift, pointed purpose. Eddie, the god damn disaster, jumps out of his skin when Richie comes around the corner. 

He comes up quick and stops maybe two feet in front of Eddie. Eddie just stares at him, eyes wide with shock and everyone around them going quiet. Richie isn’t sure who knows what, but no one has given him shit in the two weeks since The Fight. 

“Stan Uris,” Richie says. 

The room goes quiet around them and Richie can feel a thousand sets of eyes pressed to the fabric of his shirt. They’re watching his every move, ready for him to snap and launch himself on Eddie, ready for him to turn on _them_. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out through his nose, tries to blow the feeling off of himself but it doesn’t work. 

Even Eddie looks apprehensive. He looks like Richie might swing any moment, finish the fight he started. Richie won’t, but Eddie doesn’t know that so he just stares up at Richie, almost shrinking into the open cavity of his locker. 

He looks like shit. Chunks of blond hair stick up in basically every direction, some falling onto his forehead and some going to the left when they clearly need to be going right. It’s no secret that he’s been running one or both hands through his hair for the past however many minutes he’s been losing his shit over here. There are bags under his eyes, too. They’re dark and they look like they’re dragging his very essence out of his body, like he hasn’t slept in a week. Even the trepidation in his eyes looks muted by the exhaustion so plainly visible. 

Eddie takes in a sharp breath, his lower lip quivering before he echoes, “Stan Uris?”

“He’s a math tutor,” Richie answers quick and to the point. “Best in school, probably. He can help you.”

“What?”

He looks so out of sorts that Richie can’t even feels smug about it. That alone frustrates him because he should be loving this. Eddie looks the way Richie’s been feeling this entire time but instead of feeling that deep seated satisfaction he was gunning for, Richie can only feel something akin to pity for Eddie. 

“I could hear you bawling from across the room,” Richie says. A touch of empathy leaks into his voice and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

He goes for his phone, patting where his pockets should be before he realizes that he doesn’t have it. It’s in his car, tucked between the center console and the driver’s seat. It died during his last class and he left it there to charge when he went to bring his truck around to the athletics parking lot. 

“Shit,” he whispers, only to himself before he glances up at a waiting Eddie. “I can give you his number but I don’t have my phone right now.”

It’s at this moment that Eddie snaps into reality. He goes from a docile, wary demeanor to perky and jittery. 

“Oh! Uh,” he stammers for a second, parting his own thighs before turning around to dig through his backpack. He produces a pen and a pad of sticky notes from the smaller front pocket and hastily scribbles something onto it. “This is my number.”

He pushes the sticky note toward Richie in an almost dumb way. His arms are completely outstretched and his hands are basically touching Richie’s chest. Richie doesn’t take the paper immediately because he should be giving Eddie Stan’s number, not Eddie giving Richie his. He shoots Eddie a confused, slightly irritated look. 

“For Stan,” Eddie elaborates. “If you don’t mind? You guys are friends, right? I just figured...” he trails off, eyes losing their brightness as his hands begin to abide by the laws of gravity and fall down. 

Quickly, Richie snatches the paper out of Eddie's hand. The action itself borders on aggressive, and again Eddie flinches. Something inside of Richie twists and turns, as angry as he was with Eddie he never wanted him to be afraid. The more Eddie practically cowers in front of him, the worse he feels. And when Eddie sniffles, Richie can hear memories of faint, broken begging. 

“Just,” he starts and then stops, looking for his words. Intentionally, he makes his voice softer around the edges. “I’ll make sure he gets this.” 

He hears Eddie thank him as he walks away. The twisting feeling begins to settle down and Richie sighs as he retrieves his cleats from his bag and begins to lace them up. 

He pulls the strings tight around his feet, tight enough to feel the blood throb in the tops of his feet, before he finally knots a bow and moves onto the second one. He does it again and when he stands, his cleats hug all the way around his feet with a kind of latent urgency. 

He can still see Eddie’s blond hair poking out from behind the tops of the lockers as he makes his way out and to the bus. 

Richie finds himself sighing almost involuntarily. There is something about Eddie that seems almost drawn in on himself. Parts of him are drawing into the shadows of his mind in ways Richie hasn’t seen in a number of years. Since starting high school, Eddie has been nothing but the picture perfect portrait of poise and confidence. Now though, after seeing him practically collapse in on himself, Richie sees what lies behind the picture. Now he sees a boy who stands with one foot in the hospital and one foot out the door. He’s running - or he’s hiding. Either way there is something looming over him. There are days where Richie thinks he’s got it all figured out and then there are days where he thinks he’s crazy for thinking about it so much. 

He should hate Eddie. This thought is something he always comes back to. _He should hate Eddie_. 

But, he doesn’t. 

Sure as Sam, he isn’t Eddie’s number one fan but he doesn’t _hate_ him. Even during the moments he wants to, he doesn’t. 

Eddie is too… _Eddie_ to hate.

Richie spends the entirety of the game standing in right field and thinking about it. He thinks about the things that Stan had said to him and it makes sense in some terrible and annoying way. Eddie keeps his head down, for the most part. And when his head isn’t down, he really isn’t doing anything wrong. It’s not like he’s going around shoving kids into lockers or fucking with people outright. The more Richie thinks about it, the more positive things he remembers about Eddie throughout the years. 

Not even really directly with Richie, either, just some small things he’s witnessed here and there. Eddie helping new kids find their way around the school; Eddie helping someone pick up papers in the hall; Eddie making pancakes for the annual Derry Pancake Breakfast for Cancer Research. Little things, but lovely things. Things that make it hard to stay mad at him, especially now. 

It’s starting to bleed out of Richie, he can feel it. Little by little, hour by hour the frustration oozes out. If what Stan says is true, then everything Eddie said in the locker room sort of makes sense. It has some kind of backbone to stand against now. The begging, the desperation, the lying. It makes sense in some fucked up way. 

In reality, Eddie probably doesn’t like Richie. Everything else Stan said made sense except for that. If Eddie liked Richie, chances are he wouldn’t have even _talked_ to Richie. But Eddie being gay? Or at least some variation of the word? Yeah, that makes a little sense. That’s something Richie can really sympathize with. And Christ, he looked so shocked before the game? Just so, out of place and scared. That was the face of someone who has no idea what he’s doing. If Eddie really meant all the things he’s done to Richie over the last few weeks, he wouldn’t have looked like that. He wouldn’t have cried so hard when Richie screamed in his face. 

He wouldn’t care so much. Even in his backwards, weird way of doing so. 

They win 4-2 that night and Richie can feel some kind of cathartic relief in his bones. Like something in the universe is telling him that letting go is the right call to make. Letting go helped him win the game, even if he really didn’t have much to do with it himself. He just stood out there, running when he needed to run and swinging when he needed to swing, all the while letting the last drops of his emotions bleed out into the grass under his feet. 

The sun is hanging low in the sky when he walks up to his car and tosses his duffle in. Jake is long gone, had some kind of family event he needed to get to, so it’s just Richie standing in the lot. Others circle around him, getting into their cars and joking with their friends. He watches them for a moment, the way a boy leans over a girl and smiles before opening the door for her to sit down. The way a track star sits on the hood of his sedan, talking to what looks like his parents after a particularly grueling meet. 

He takes in a deep breath. It’s been getting warmer and warmer out to the point where Richie only really needs a jacket at night. Maggie is always on his case about it. _You’ll catch your death out there Richard it’s only forty degrees out there!_ Yeah, no shit. But forty is above freezing and that calls for a hoodie at best. 

With the sun going down, though, he pulls his bomber tighter around his chest and digs out his keys to unlock the driver side door. Before he can climb in, though, a voice comes from behind. 

“Richie? Hey, man, how are you?”

He can’t place it at first, but he knows it’s no one on the baseball team. By now, he knows what all of his teammates sound like and can even pick out most of the varsity boys. 

“I’m fine,” Richie says automatically as he pulls the door to his truck open. He doesn’t get inside yet, though. He just stands there, facing the cabin of his truck and waiting to see what happens next. He’s a little bit wary, people don’t normally just come up and start talking to him and if they do, it normally doesn’t last too long. 

“Cool, cool, that’s good,” the person says. Well, obviously they’re not going to go anywhere so Richie throws caution to the wind and turns. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Benjamin Hanscom,” He says because there Ben is, in all of his gorgeous high school beauty. Richie’d always thought Ben was cute, despite what everyone said about his gut. He’s had these deep brown eyes and soft face since they were little and it was easy to like him. He was the kind of genuine sweet you can only get at an old fashioned candy shop. 

“In the flesh,” Ben says back and beams something pearly white. 

“What brings you over to my humble steed?” Richie asks as he pats the top of Betsy. A hollow, rusted, metallic sound rings out between them and Ben chuckles again.  

“I haven’t seen you since the party. Wanted to say hi, you know?”

“Well, howdy there Hanscom,” Richie smiles and Ben laughs something light and entertained. God, he’s so happy and bright all the time, it must be some kind of curse or blessing or spell. 

“How have you been? Like, really, not some faded out one word answer.” Ben drops his own duffle bag on the asphalt and moves around to lean against the back of the truck. 

“I’ve been alright,” Richie shrugs. He leans up against the inside of his open door and crosses his arms. An easy smile passes over his face. “What about you?”

“Great! Just got second in my meet so I can’t really complain!” 

“Fuck yeah, Haystack takes home the gold!” Richie reaches out and smacks Ben’s shoulder in a way that screams Bro Friendship. Unlike his other Bro Friendship Bros, though, Ben doesn’t smack him back. Instead, he lets his body sway with the force of it and gives Richie a confused but pleased look. 

“Silver, but close,” He says. “You’re a good guy, Rich, we should get together again.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Richie laughs, a little caught off guard by the statement. Ben is nice, that’s his whole schtick, so Richie isn’t really sure how to take the comment. It makes him pause for a second and think about it, him hanging out with Ben. What would they even do together? What would they talk about? Does he _actually_ want to hang out with Richie or is this just part of his whole thing? Or, wait, fuck. This might just be his way of – 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to bring Bev along for ya.” Richie punctuates his sentence with a crude wink and a little shoulder shimmy and is delighted to see Ben turn roughly pink shades of red in ten seconds. 

“Uh,” Ben gapes for a second, eyes wide, “I mean, that would be _nice_ and everything but, uh.”

“C’mon, I know Eds totally cock-blocked you guys.”

“He didn’t _cock-block us_ ,” Ben sputters, going an even deeper shade of red. 

“Sure thing, buddy.” He’s not trying to embarrass Ben, not in a mean or malicious way. He’s not even saying it to be an asshole or make fun. In his mind, it’s more of a nudge than anything else. Ben and Bev have this awful dance they’ve been doing for the better part of forever and if someone doesn’t step in and get this party moving, no one will. 

“Bring her if you want,” Ben says, “But don’t think I don’t want you there, too. You’re a fun dude, Richie. I’ve always thought so. I think it’d be cool for us all to get together again.”

Now it’s Ben’s turn to smack him on the shoulder. It jostles a laugh out of Richie and then they’re both smiling before Ben grabs his bag and excuses himself. Richie watches him until he climbs into the passenger seat of some light blue car. There’s a woman in the driver’s seat who Richie only just barely sees before they’re out of the parking lot. She looks like him, has his chestnut hair and kind smile. 

Richie climbs into his own car, then, and shuts the door. The parking lot is mostly empty and the sight of it fills him with a kind of lonely comfort. Any masks he has to wear around other people slip away as he rests his head on the leather of his steering wheel. 

Well, at least Ben thinks he’s kind of cool, right? It’s a weird feeling, to feel in with the in crowd. Ben is another one who worked his way up the social food chain and Richie doesn’t hate him for it. It’s easy to hate the jocks and popular kids when they did nothing to get to where they are. Ben, though, has done everything. Bullied for years just to turn around and say _fuck you_ to everyone who ever hurt him or called him awful names. 

Ben wants him around. Ben wants _him_ around. It’s weird and it sits in his chest like a ball at the bottom of an empty chamber. Why Richie? Is it just because he’s suddenly higher on the food chain, too? Or is it because he’s close to Bev? Or is it, in some weird fucked up way, because Richie is just Richie? 

That last one can’t be true because there’s no universe where Eddie didn’t tell Ben and all of the others what Richie said to him. How Richie pushed him and screamed in his face and left. They’re a tight knit group in the same ways that Richie is tight with Stan and Bev. Ben _has_ to know what Richie did, how he acted.

Richie sighs from deep within his chest and sits back up against his seat. He reaches for where his phone is tucked away and charging and pulls it up before turning it on. While he waits, he fishes the sticky note he’d tucked in the smaller pocket of his bag. Eddie’s number is scrawled across it and stares back at him as if its waiting for something to happen. 

Richie shakes his head slowly and reaches up to take his scrunchie out. His hair falls all over; it tickles his ears and eyes and the back of his neck and the tension from having it pulled so high releases. It’s like a pressure valve coming undone, like steam is pouring out of his ears and every hair follicle on his head. 

When his phone finally boots up, he grabs it and types out a single text message. 

_Richie [7:02pm]: It’s Richie, here’s Stan’s number  
_ _[1 attachment]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Says I want to update semi regularly  
> Also, me: Takes an entire month to write one chapter
> 
> Whoops. Things are absolutely in-fucking-sane right now and they're only getting crazier so hold onto your pants, kids. I DID start the next chapter but we will see how long it takes me. Thank you so much for your unending support and patience. And I know this is my first time posting since the new movie dropped so to anyone who is new here, welcome! It's gonna be a fun ride so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> On another note, tinyarmedtrex and I have started yet another horror AU! It's called The Devil You Know and it can be found on both of our Archives. It's a good old fashioned Scream AU but with a dash of your favorite Losers. Come join the fun and find out whose on the chopping block >:)
> 
> Oh! Also! I created a playlist for this fic. Another self indulgent project lmao. It's not finished yet but please let me know via comment/ask in my inbox if you're even interested in hearing it. If no one cares for it I won't bother yall but if you want it I'll post the link with the next chapter! No pressure either way, it's just a fun little thing bc I love music and I love this universe a whole ass lot.


	13. Left For Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His thumbs trace over the worn-down rubber of his phone case, catching on the chipped plastic. It’s weird, seeing Eddie’s number on his phone screen after everything. It hardly even feels like anything, at this point. He feels so far removed from it all, like it was years ago instead of a few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Descriptions of gore (video game related)

_Eddie [10:02pm]: hey_

What the fuck?

Eddie’s only texted him once and that was a few days ago. It was a short and simple thank you text when Richie sent him Stan’s contact information. Richie hadn’t expected more. He hadn’t even replied to that because there was nothing else to say. He’d done what he said – given Eddie a way to contact Stan so he didn’t fail his math class. There was no reason to prolong the conversation, to make things even more tense and awkward and strained in the locker room. 

Plus, it’s ten o’clock at night. What does Eddie want right now? What could he possibly want from Richie when they’re both supposed to be tuckered out and under the sheets, sleeping snug throughout the night? 

He’s got half a mind text him back and tell him to fuck off. 

He doesn’t, though. He just holds his phone in his hands and reads the word over and over again. Eddie’s number isn’t even saved, it just spells out seven digits at the very top where a name should be. The only reason he even knows it’s Eddie is because the chat literally only has one other message in it. 

His thumbs trace over the worn-down rubber of his phone case, catching on the chipped plastic. It’s weird, seeing Eddie’s number on his phone screen after everything. It hardly even feels like anything, at this point. He feels so far removed from it all, like it was years ago instead of a few weeks. 

Really, he’s got three options here. He can ghost the fuck out of this text message and pretend he never got it, move on with his life in blissful ignorance and eventually forget the entire thing ever happened. Or, he can text Eddie back and rip him three entirely new assholes. That wouldn’t really accomplish anything, though. He’s already done that once before and all it did was leave a sinkhole in his lungs and scars on the bottoms of his feet. Now, he walks around with a small, hardly noticeable limp, trying to pretend like he didn’t say the things he said. 

Or, you know, he could be fucking normal. He could be a normal fucking guy and reply to the text like normal fucking guys do. _Hey there, Eddie, how ya doing? It’s ten pee-em and gorgeous outside. The stars are shining like little air holes in the firefly jar lid of the sky and we’re all just buzzing around down here, lightbulbs up our asses and wings a flap, flap, flapping away. Boy, the air is crisp tonight, can’t wait for things to really warm up and give us a good old-fashioned Derry Summer! How about you, ol’ chap?_  

He settles for something a little more… actually normal. 

_Richie [10:10pm]: Hey_

For good measure, he adds Eddie’s name to his contact list, sans emojis. Emojis are reserved exclusively for friends and loved ones and Eddie is neither. Richie almost goes as far as typing Eddie’s god given full name out, getting as far as the W in Edward before he backspaces and retypes. 

He tosses his phone down on his bed and turns his attention to his laptop. 

The Good Place is probably his favorite show on television right now. It’s perfect. What’s better than a plucky group of six morally ambiguous people trying to get into heaven post mortem? Nothing. Nothing at all. Fuck Game of Thrones, this is where it’s at. _This_ is where it’s _at._

It’s easy to let himself get lost in it. Hell, every time Janet comes on screen Richie practically loses his damn mind. But for some reason, it’s harder to focus today. He can’t figure out why, but his mind keeps wandering back to his phone, lying face down on his comforter. 

Maybe he didn’t feel his phone vibrate. The bed is soft, after all. It’d be easy to miss. It’d be so easy to just not know. It would be rude if he waited so long to text Eddie back if he’s the only one who started the conversation. 

Yeah. That would be rude as fuck. So, like, just – 

Nothing. 

Richie’s home screen stares back to him, devoid of any texts, snapchats, Facebook notifications. Just empty pixels. 

Okay. Well, at least he can relax knowing he isn’t ignoring Eddie. And he’s _sure_ to hear it when it actually does vibrate. 

He leans back again and taps the spacebar on his laptop, effectively resuming his show. Somewhere on screen, Chidi talks about the dot of an I but no matter how much Richie loves them, he can’t stay focused. He hardly even knows what's happening in a scene he _knows_ should be ripping his heart in half.

Maybe if he just checks – 

Nothing.

Fucking shit. He tosses his phone harder than he wants and it bounces off of his mattress, thudding on the floor. 

God _damn_ it. Fine. Whatever. It can live on the floor. It’s too distracting anyway. It’s taking away from his precious time with his favorite morally ambiguous idiots. 

Except. 

He moves quickly, leaning over the side of his bed and grabbing his phone. He clicks the side button and it lights up one more time, home screen completely devoid of any notifications. 

A sigh rips through him as he throws himself back onto his bed, forcing himself to stare up at the ceiling while the show continues to drone on in the background. No sense in pausing it now, he’s going to have to rewatch the episode later. 

Somewhere deep inside of him, he resists the urge to groan and kick his legs. Partly because he might kick his laptop but also because this is fucking stupid. What the fuck is he waiting for? He didn’t even want Eddie to text him. This was purely a business exchange, nothing more. He doled out Stan’s number, set up some lowkey tutoring, and that was that. Nothing more. Nada, zilch, nein, fucking nothing, absolutely fucking – 

His phone vibrates in his hand, kicking him entirely out of his thoughts as he rockets into a sitting position. 

_Eddie [10:15pm]: hows it going?_

Oh… kay? That’s it? That’s all he wanted? Just to see how Richie’s day is going? Richie just stares at his phone for a couple minutes, reads the three words over again in his mind, and sits baffled in his bed. 

What the fuck? 

_Richie [10:17pm]: Good, I guess?_

The second he hits send, he regrets the question mark. It sounds mean, dismissive almost. Well, he was kind of going for dismissive but actually seeing it looks bad. What if Eddie doesn’t respond? What if he thinks that’s it? This is obviously some kind of olive branch, right? Shouldn’t he be accepting those?

_Eddie [10:19pm]: right yeah this is probably weird isnt it_

Well great. Now look what you did, Richie. You ruined a perfectly fine conversation. Look at it, it’s got anxiety now! He’s not going to text back. Effectively killed the entire thing right there. Jesus Christ. Every single social interaction has to be a fucking blunder, doesn’t it? Can’t just have a normal _hey, how you doing oh I’m good thanks for asking_ conversation. No, it’s always some over the top, bullshit – 

_Eddie [10:20pm]: sorry. i know its weird. i just wanted to say thank you for giving me stans number_

Oh. That’s not exactly what he was expecting. It makes sense, though. Richie doesn’t need a thank you for something like this, but he can feel appreciation settling in between the bones of his ribcage as he lets a small smile come out. Yeah, maybe it is weird but it’s also nice to know that, after everything, they can still be at least a little bit cool. 

_Richie [10:21pm]: No worries, dude. Glad I could help_

And that’s that. Richie sets his phone down on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows. A small sense of embarrassment begins to creep into his cheeks because, wow, that was rough. He can’t believe how worked up he got over a _thank you_ text. Richie Tozier, overreacting king of the century. Give it up, folks. Like step right up and see the court jester in action.

Whatever. It only takes him two seconds to rewind the episode and start over, watching as the cold open plays across his screen. At least now he can watch his show in peace, god dammit. 

It’s extremely weird knowing Eddie has his phone number now and _apparently_ he can just text Richie whenever he wants. That’s a lot of power. Like, seriously, he could text Richie anything he wanted to. He could text him shitty things or nice things or a picture of a random potato at any given moment. Just one fleeting thought and Richie’s inbox is at Eddie’s disposal. Which, okay, maybe Richie has the same power because hey, he’d be the first to admit he’s texted all kinds of asinine shit to Stan and Bev but this is _Eddie_. The same Eddie who has been running Richie around in circles for the better part of months now.

Fuck, what the hell is happening on his show? God – fucking. 

Eleanor and Chidi pause on the screen and Richie groans in frustration, shutting his laptop and laying back against his pillows again. 

Maybe if he just, you know, closes his eyes or something he can get his brain to focus up a little bit. Just kind of slow down a bit, enjoy the moment. A deep breath floods his lungs and then his body deflates, tension slipping out from between his lips. Being in his room is nice. It’s quiet, peaceful almost. If he listens really close, he can hear the thrum of the television from where his parents are downstairs. 

Yeah, it’s nice. This is nice. This is something Richie could – 

A small _brr_ sound echoes from his nightstand and Richie almost flies off the bed from the force of how fast he goes for his phone. 

_Eddie [10:35pm]: actually, i really just wanted to say im sorry for everything. i know i said it before but we were fighting and i don’t know if you know i meant it. i do. i meant it. im really sorry._

Richie stares at his phone, reading and rereading the message a few times while his brain catches up with his eyes. Yeah, sure, the message is spelled out in front of him but it takes him a few seconds to know what the words _sorry_ and _meant it_ means and by the time he figures it out, another text comes through. 

_Eddie [10:38pm]: that was lame. sorry. i just can’t handle the thought of you hating me like you said you did_

It’s as if some fucked up part of Richie’s brain switches to auto pilot. He swears to god it does because he doesn’t remember the following ten seconds. He entirely blacks the fuck out, fingers moving of their own accord. 

_Richie [10:38pm]: lol that’s pretty gay man_

What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with him? Why the _fuck_ would he say that to the boy who he just recently realized is probably terrified and in the closet? Why would he do that? Why would he fuck this up even more than it already is? This is insane, this is fucking nuts. 

He only has one hope to salvage this. One chance to fix this before it blows up in his face. 

_Richie [10:38pm]: :p_

Well. Maybe that will fix things. Honestly, it’s his only hope because there’s no coming back from that. Eddie doesn’t _know_ him, anymore. He doesn’t know what it’s like for Richie to fuck around.

_Eddie [10:39pm]: god!!! you suck!!!_

Well. Okay. that’s not bad. This could be worse. Much, much worse. 

_Richie [10:39pm]: Yeah, and you swallow_

What is wrong with him! Who dropped him as a child! Why is he like this!

_Eddie [10:39pm]: you wish_

Oh. This is going much smoother than Richie thought, much smoother than it should be for one emotionally reactive twink and a dumbass who can’t keep his foot out of his mouth. 

_Eddie [10:41pm]: so are we cool?_

Richie lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He deflates, much like before as the tension bleeds out him and something new settles inside. Something he didn’t realize he’d been without since this whole thing started: a sense of ease. 

Yeah, they were cool. It was better off to just move on and pretend this entire thing didn’t happen. Or, at least, try to move past it. Try to be whatever versions of Richie and Eddie they can be now that all is apparently said and done. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

_Richie [10:45pm]: Yeah, man. We’re cool._

Somewhere between the sheets of his bed and the racing in his brain, he makes it to sleep with his phone in his hand and his laptop still sitting in the center of his bed. It’s almost alarming to wake up to. He’s not used to sleeping so disorderly. Despite how chaotic he looks on the outside, his home routine is something he takes pride in. So much so, that when he does wake up he hardly knows where he is or what time it is. The sun is peeking through his window in that dim, early morning way and his phone is ringing next to his face. 

He clicks the alarm off, groggily sitting up and running a hand through his matted hair and – great. He didn’t even plug it in last night. The red _low battery_ warning blinks at him from the center of his screen. It lights green when he plugs it in but it’s only going to get a good thirty minutes of charge before he’s got to go. Which, whatever. He’ll bum a charger off of Stan or something. 

His morning shower is quick and by the time he makes it downstairs, there’s a coffee to-go cup sitting on the kitchen table. It’s suspect at minimum, but Went smiles softly from behind his newspaper. Richie lifts it to his lips, taking a tentative sip and then hums. Fuck, it’s heavenly. It’s the perfect cup of coffee. How the fuck – 

“You’re been drinking your coffee the same way for the past two years,” Went says without looking up. He flips the page of his paper, the sound of it bouncing off the tiles of the kitchen floor. 

Richie smiles at him, not even sure if his dad can see from behind that massive wall of text, before taking another sip and tightening the strap of his backpack. “Thanks, pops.”

And then he’s out the door and in his truck and the world keeps on spinning. 

By the time he gets to class, his coffee is completely drained. He takes an empty seat, checking his phone while he waits for the bell to ring. There’s a few messages from Bev and a snapchat from Jake. He answers all of them, clicking his phone dark just in time for Ben to sit down next to him. 

Richie gives him a cheeky grin, almost comically wide, and Ben laughs as he pulls out his own books. Richie hadn’t even been fully aware that they had their first class of the day together until Ben had talked to him the other night. Ever since, he’d made a point of sitting next to Richie and getting in at least one conversation a day. Richie can’t say he minds. There’s something oddly welcoming about Ben. The fucking lug is just perfect at making people settle in their chair. 

Hell, even their teacher isn’t complaining about the sudden seating change. Sure, Richie slips Ben shitty notes during class sometimes and the two of them might giggle under their breath, but Richie’s outbursts and distracting comments have all but halved since the change. So really, it’s a winning game for everyone. 

The rest of the day goes on. Stan misses lunch, something about tutoring a kid down in the library, and so Richie and Bev shoot the shit for the duration of their meal. In passing, she mentions a show she’s got tonight with the choir. Maybe she thinks Richie won’t come, like he’s busy with baseball or something, but lucky for him, he isn’t. There’s no game tonight and she doesn’t go on until almost eight, so he keeps his mouth shut and makes a mental note to get the address from someone else. 

When practice rolls around, it’s just warm enough to swap his sweatpants for basketball shorts. The pale thinness from his legs stands out in contrast to his teammates but he’s thankful for the warmer weather, embracing his less than stellar physique. Charlie makes an off handed comment with a smile and it makes Richie light up. It’s easy, the way he falls in with his friends here. They jokes, complete nonsense and he’s surprised by how deep his feet have settled into the soil. 

“All I’m saying is that if pigeons were really thirty pounds, New York would be under ground.”

“I don’t know, man, I don’t think it’s statistically improbable.”

“You don’t think it’s statistically improbable for pigeons to weigh thirty pounds?”

“Not what I said. Maybe not _all_ pigeons but certainly some.”

“Dude, have you ever seen a pigeon before?”

“Uh, duh!”

The sound of snapping leather punctuated Richie’s claim. Sure, he’s seen a pigeon before, but that’s not the point. The point is the sheer possibility of a thirty-pound pigeon. Just imagine the possibilities. And in New York, no doubt? It’s possible. Their diet consists of like, French fries and other shit dropped on the streets. Those dudes are ruthless, hardcore motherfuckers. They’ll shiv you for a big mac.

“Richie, I don’t think you have any idea how physics works.”

“And you do?” 

Another snap of leather. Richie’s glove closes around the baseball and he looks at the person standing across from him before taking another step backwards, creating an even greater distance. 

When he takes the ball out of his mitt, it’s warm to the touch. Not hot or anything, but warm. Kinetic energy. It’s something he was learning about in class. Entropy or some shit. Physics. Close enough. 

“No, but I’m taking chemistry.”

“Holy shit.”

He throws the ball, leisurely but strong and it snaps into Jakes glove. 

“What?”

“Do you ever listen to yourself talk?” 

He doesn’t say in a way that makes Richie’s skin crawl. His voice is more finely tuned, like a banjo with a comedic twang. Smiles are lazy where they’re standing on the field and it’s almost like they’re completely alone. Richie’s glad he joined the team for a lot of reasons, but Jake might just be the biggest. He’s a fucking idiot in the way only the ones we deeply love can be and the thought shakes Richie up and down. He hasn’t loved someone this casually since he met Bev or Stan and it took a while for them to worm their way down to his very core. Jake happened on accident. Richie didn’t decide if he was going to love him, it just sort of happened. 

“Of course I do, and I think I’m the funniest fucking person alive.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

Jake’s laugh is bright and bold, kind of like Folgers coffee, and Richie feels the heels of his cleats sinking into the warming Earth. It’s comfortable today, which is more than he could say about the past two weeks. Basically everyone on both teams knows some variation of what went down between Eddie and Richie, especially because most of them saw the start of it. Whenever he thinks about it, his entire face burns with embarrassment.  He really lost his shit that day, didn’t he? 

The ball comes back to him and he catches it easily enough before gripping it tight and throwing it back. He tries to throw the memories along with it, but they don’t go. They stay in his mitt, in his mind, behind his eyes. He can see himself shoving Eddie to the ground and screaming in his face. He can see Jake’s concerned eyes. 

He remembers how the first practice after felt. No one talked about it – well, Jake and Charlie asked him about it but that doesn’t count – and both Richie and Eddie tried to pretend it didn’t happen, but it felt like there was some kind of fundamental shift that happened. Everyone gave Richie some space to breathe. People didn’t avoid him but he could feel them staring from the corners of their eyes. 

Jake still looks at him like that, sometimes. Not the side eye thing but the whole concern thing. Mostly it happens when Eddie is nearby, Jake’s eyebrows will kind of punch together and his mouth will draw thin as he watches Richie for any sign of emotional outburst. It’s simultaneously mortifying and comforting to know he’s got someone in his corner, even silently. 

“You don’t want that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’d be boring if you did.”

They get the signal to switch out of warm up and Richie lazily jogs to where his coach is standing at home plate, joining the rest of the team as they take a knee and listen to the plan for practice today. Jake is right next to him, a solid presence at his side. 

Richie doesn’t listen to the coach, his mind like a corvette drifting down a race track. Or, well, whatever racecar metaphor would work. Richie has no fucking idea, he doesn’t watch nascar. 

Either way, though, he can’t help but think about the way his phone is burning a hole in his pocket. It’s insistent, pressing against his thigh and begging to be used to the point that Richie caves, pulling it out and keeping it hidden behind the back of the boy crouching in front of him. It’s only out for a few seconds, just long enough to type a quick text. 

_Richie [3:12pm]: Good luck with your game today_

Consider it an olive branch. A way of reaching out and drying any bad blood that might still be cooling on the pavement. He doesn’t exactly expect a text back, but it makes a little sense. Eddie is probably on the bus, still. Bored and antsy as they make their way to the opposing school. 

_Eddie [3:15pm]: good luck with your face_

Wow. Hey. That was uncalled for.

 _Richie [3:16pm]: Hey I have a good face_  
_Eddie [3:17pm]: sure you do_ _  
_ Richie [3:17pm]: I do, your mom thinks I’m the hottest man in derry

“Hey,” Richie whispers, leaning over and nudging Jake gently. “You busy tonight?”

Jake’s eyebrows arch up and he shrugs, whispering back, “I can be.”

Richie doesn’t answer, just smiles and continues listening to their coach drone on about running drills and batting practice. Jake smiles, too, silent and solid as he nudges his shoulder against Richie’s. It’s a warning. _Put the phone away, man. Coach will have your head._

Another buzz in his hands. 

 _Eddie [3:18pm]: my mom also thinks dr phil is hot_ _  
_ _Richie [3:18pm]: He is_

A chorus of groans rings out around him and Richie can feel Jake glaring holes into the side of his head. Whatever coach is talking about goes in one ear and out the other. He couldn’t pay attention now even if he wanted to. 

_Eddie [3:19pm]: youre disgusting_

Just gotta send this one last text. He’ll be quick, super quick, he promises. It’s nothing big, nothing too important. Just wanna send this _one last text_ and then he’ll put his phone away

_Richie [3:19pm]: Yeah, but you like it don’t you squidward_

There. Done. 

Richie slips his phone back into his pocket just in time for everyone to stand up. He follows blindly, jogging back into the dugout and watching as people strap on batting gloves and grab helmets. Richie does the same, unsure of _exactly_ what they’re doing but confident he’ll be able to follow the steps pretty easy. 

“You’re such a jackass,” Jake says from beside him. He’s tightening the Velcro of his own gloves, concentrating on his hands, but he’s smiling. 

“You love it.”

As soon as the words leave Richie’s mouth, he feels his phone go off again. Now, in the safety of the dugout, there's low risk of being caught so he pulls it out. 

_Eddie [3:20pm]: me hoy menoy_

Richie isn’t even aware of how he smiles. Damn, this kid knows his references. Thank god for that. If he didn’t, Richie might have to give him the boot. If he can’t keep up with some good old Spongebob, he’s not good enough. 

“Seriously man, who’s so important?”

“No one,” Richie locks his phone and drops it into his bag before turning and smiling at Jake. It’s a challenge to the weird look Jake is giving him, curious and concerned at the same time. It borders on the looks he gives when Eddie and Richie are in the locker room at the same time. Boy, if he only knew now. _No need to worry, Jake my boy. We’re on good terms. In fact, he’s texting me absolute nonsense as we speak._

Somehow, he manages to keep up with practice. It isn’t easy, there are groups of kids rotating from the cages to the field. Some people are scattered in no particular organization, waiting to field anything that gets hit. Some are warming up behind the dugout, swinging bats at empty pockets of air. Richie just floats from group to group, praying he won’t get yelled at for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

When Richie checks his phone again, it comes up empty. 

He makes it through, though. He makes it all the way to the end and then suddenly he’s at home and Jake is with him and for the first time, Richie feels almost nervous to be his friend. He wonders for a moment if Jake is going to judge him for anything. His house is pretty cookie cutter, he thinks, but his parents can be a lot.

Before either of them can jump out from behind the corner, Richie ushers Jake upstairs and into his room. 

“Welcome to casa de Ricardo!” The R of his name rolls easily off his tongue, extending the syllable for an extra few seconds and adding some flair to the end of it. While he says it, Richie throws his arms out wide and spins, gesturing to everything; the posters on the wall, the messy desk, the way his clothes are practically dripping out of his open closet. All in all, though, it’s not too bad. The floor is pretty clean and most of the mess is coming from his desk, papers and assignment strewn about. It’s easy for him to cross the room, kick some of the mess into his closet and close the door. When he looks back, Jake is smiling. 

“I don’t know what I expected to be honest,” He says with his hands in his pocket, a lazy look on his face. Richie motions for him to sit wherever and Jake chooses the desk chair, welcome but not yet comfortable. Richie is almost surprised but it takes him a second to remember that Jake hasn’t been coming over every week since they were kids. He’s not used to it, not yet ready to make himself homely. 

“What? More cool swagger?” Richie shimmies his shoulder a little bit, waggles his eyebrows and lets his entire body loosen up. 

“Ew, sure no one has said swagger unironically in like five years,” Jake laughs, taking in the space around him some more. 

“That’s because I’m original, baby. Don’t follow no footsteps.”

“You sure are something, Rich.”

Richie kicks his shoes to the corner of his room and shrugs out of his hoodie. He shoots a quick warning to Jake and then changes into a clean, soft pair of sweatpants that were draped over the side of his bed. The cotton insides soothe the skin of his calves and thighs, immediately letting him sink into the comfort of his own home. These are his favorite pair, treasured and protected at all costs. There’s no way to get another one, no way in hell. He can’t even remember _when_ he got them. They’ve just always been here, waiting for Richie to come home. 

It takes maybe five minutes to get the Xbox up and running. It’s not one of those fancy new ones, no way. This baby is an authentic, original, ancient Xbox 360. That’s right, fuck the Xbox One, we die like antiques in this house. 

Jake toes his shoes off and kicks his feet up onto the desk, really stretching out as much of his body as he’s able to, lets his body lean back in the chair, chestnut hair falling back. It’s fucked up from practice, sticking up in weird directions and probably dirty as hell. Jake doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s content in just existing instead of performing. Richie is sure, though, that he’ll be put back together by tomorrow morning, pep in his step and gel in his hair as he walks to and from classes.

“Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

Oh, fuck. 

“I’m sorry! I uh,” Richie flounders, face probably shining bright red. He snaps his eyes away, looks down at his bed, and then tries to busy himself in any way he can. It’s frantic and rushed and not at all casual but fuck, how did he mess this up already? How the fuck did this happen? “I didn’t even mean –”

“Look, man, you got a foot fetish, that’s fine. Just stay away from these little piggies.”

Jake wiggles his toes for emphasis and just barely manages to hold his expression, a hint of a smile peeking through the cracks. Then, like a dam shattering, Jake breaks down into obscene cackles. A wave of relief crashes over Richie and then he’s laughing, too. Cracking up, even. It all floods out of his system and crashes onto the floor. Jake apologizes through tears, too bent up to sound sincere but Richie doesn’t mind. Fuck, he really got him, did he?

After a moment, Richie crosses the room and turns the TV on. Then, he fiddles with a white box, plugging something in and hitting a button. The system whirls on, green light pouring out of the power ring, and Richie settles back on the bed, tossing a remote to Jake and clicking through the main screen and into the game sitting in his disk drive. 

Jake roars in laughter as the Left 4 Dead logo appears on the screen. “Holy, fuck, Richie,” he says, swiveling back and forth in his chair. “I haven’t played this game in years.”

“It’s a classic, babe,” Richie says, clicking through the options and starting up the Dark Carnival campaign. He picks Ellis because he always picks Ellis. Jake picks Coach and Richie can’t help but laugh. 

It’s easy between them, killing zombies and making fun of each other. More than once, Richie lights the entire fucking map on fire and Jake has to figure out how to not only survive, but save Richie’s ass as well. 

They die more times than they can count, friendly firing the bots to death and startling the Witch just because it’s fun. Every time Richie sets her off, Jake screams in terror and excitement, desperately shooting her to save Richie from eternal damnation. Richie tries to save Jake in kind, shooting at the Tank until he runs out of ammo and then blindly swinging an axe. 

The game goes about as well as it sounds like it would. All in all, it takes them two hours to get through the map. Maggie knocks on the door twice, tells them to _boys, please quiet down_ and _Jake, honey, it’s so nice to see you would you like to stay for dinner?_

Jake, being the polite young man he is, declines and says _my mother will have dinner waiting for me when I gets home, but thank you Mrs. Tozier, what an honor to be invited at_ _all_.

Maggie smiles, flattered and gentle before shooting Richie a warning glance about their volume before shutting the door. Richie only laughs. 

“What an honor, Mrs. Tozier!” He croons in a high-pitched voice, pulling the trigger on his controller and blasting a few zombies. 

“Shut the fuck up, man, your mom is nice,” Jake says, swinging a sword and carving his way through a horde. They’re on their third attempt of the finale, desperately trying to make it through the Midnight Rider’s concert. Rochelle is long dead and Nick has low health. There are no more health packs and they’re down to the wire. 

They’re just waiting on the last two Tanks to show up and then the helicopter should arrive. Richie’s got an adrenaline shot waiting. He’s not going down this time. 

God, there’s so many. The dead, lifeless masses are coming at them from all sides, too quick to be humanly possible. Rotting flesh drips from their low-resolution bodies as bullets rip through them. It’s gruesome, a little gory, and Richie is living for it. Shoot, shoot, reload. Pipe bomb, machete, fuck, no more ammo. 

Back when it first came out, this was Richie’s favorite video game. The first one was captivating, easy to get lost in and riveting. Watching the survivors travel from one location to the next, surviving and clawing their way to safety. God, it was so fun. When the second one came out, Richie damn near lost his mind. 

“I think I figured it out,” Jake says, backing himself up into a corner so he can swing his crowbar out and kill as many zombies as he can in one go. 

“How to beat this map?” Richie asks, throwing a bile jar and watching as the post-mortem masses shamble to where it landed. Then, he opens fire on them.

“No,” Jake says, and then stops. “We know how to do that. I meant who I’m going to ask to prom.”

“You’re still on that shit?” 

Fucking junior prom. He’s said it before and he’ll say it again, it’s a waste of time and money. Why do prom twice?

“Yeah, man, I’m still on it. I think I wanna ask Sandra Dee.”

Richie glances over at Jake, careful not to let his gaze drift for too long. Sandra Dee? Who the fuck is that?

Before he can ask, though, Jake continues with, “She’s in my English class. She’s really pretty, got long blonde hair and glasses. We’re partners for a book report.”

Richie hums once, slashing open a zombie, watching as it collapses. 

“Do it,” He says after a second. Just because Richie isn’t going to go doesn’t mean he has to be a dick about it to Jake. 

Jake opens his mouth to say something but whatever it is gets abandoned. A Tank comes slamming down from the top of the arena and Jake lets out a scream before shouting, “It’s almost time!”

Richie sprints to the ammo pack, desperately reloading his gun before he picks up a Molotov and hurls it. The Tank lights on fire, roaring as Richie unloads a full clip into its chest. 

Above them, the chopper circles. Which side it’s going to land on remains a mystery as the Tank charges at Richie. He swings his big, meaty fist and Richie’s character lifelessly flies across the screen, dropping several health points along the way. The monster roars again and runs forward but just as it’s about to slam another fist onto Richie, Jake unloads his own ammo clip. 

“Richie, c’mon we gotta go!”

This is it. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for. _This_ is the moment they’ve died three times trying to get to. Richie scrolls through his items, grabs his adrenaline shot, and slams the A button. 

The edges of the screen blur and the sounds dim out. The only thing Richie can hear from the speaker is the sound of his characters heartbeat. 

He moves fast, way quicker than Jake and unfortunately Jake takes a critical hit from the Tank. Not only does he go flying, but he goes flying to the exact opposite place from where he needs to be. 

“Great googly moogly it’s all gone to shit!”

Zombies are crowding from every corner, a horde so big that not even a full team would be able to stave them off. This is it. They have to make it. 

“Jake!” 

“No! Keep going!”

Fuck. Richie runs, turning around every now and then to unload another clip into the Tank. Why the fuck isn’t this motherfucker eating grass?  

Jake reloads, shooting as many bullets as he can and screaming the entire time. Finally, the fucker stills and falls to the ground. 

“Shit,” Jake says, hushed and through his teeth. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He’s limping, moving slow and struggling through the throng of zombies. God dammit, no man left behind. 

Richie stops, running back and shooting through the masses until Jake has a clear path. He’s moving slow, but fuck, he might make it. God, they’re so close. The chopper is right there, it’s right there!

A special infected tries to nab Jake, but somewhere along the way, the final bot joined them and takes the blow. Nick’s screams can he heard through the speaker as he gets pulled away, zombie tongue wrapped around his body. 

Okay. Maybe one man left behind. 

They make their way across the stadium. They’re so close, so close. The blades of the chopper whirl and whirl, taunting them. 

“We’re gonna make it! We’re gonna do it!” Richie cheers, jamming the joystick forward as if that’s going to make them move any quicker. 

Oh, he did it! Yes! He’s in the chopper, they did it, they won, they – 

The ground rumbles again and suddenly Jake’s character flies past Richie, through the helicopter, and gets incapacitated on the ground floor of the arena. 

The screen goes black as the helicopter lifts Richie, the only surviving player, to safety. 

_In memory of:_

_Nick_  
_Rochelle_ _  
_ AssEater69

The memoir flashes across the screen and they both just stare at it. Jake’s controller slips from his hand and thuds on the carpet. Richie just lets himself fall back, limp body landing on the bed. 

“Did a Tank just punch me through the helicopter?”

“Yep.”

“I cannot fucking _believe.”_

A ringing sound breaks them both out of their stupor. Richie’s phone buzzes from his bedside table. Jake smirks, watching as Richie reaches for it. 

_Eddie [7:20pm]: winner winner chicken dinner_

“Hey, Rich, maybe you can bring your new friend to prom,” Jake says, voice oozing with sarcasm. Little kissy noises sound out from that side of the room, but Richie just flips him off. 

_Richie [7:21pm]: Want a prize?_

“Can it, jackass,” He says after he hits send, sitting up and using his remote to shut the Xbox off. “Hey, sorry to rush you out but I’ve gotta be somewhere at eight.”

“Meeting up with your secret lover?”

More kissy noises earn Jake a pillow to the face. He catches it easily, laughing the entire time and spinning in the chair. “C’mon, Rich! I never see you text anyone ever and suddenly you’re glued to your phone?”

Richie ignores him, hopping out of bed and grabbing his hoodie. “Bev’s performing tonight.”

“At least tell me who it is,” Jake says, eyes pleading as he stands. “Boy or girl?”

“Your mom.”

“Really? Your mom jokes?”

“It’s a classic,” Richie says, throwing his hair up in a messy bun and catching his pillow when Jake lazily tosses it back. 

“You know Bev and Stan are gonna go. They’ve got some arm candy,” Jake says, waggling his eyebrows back at Richie. “At least think about coming.”

Richie mulls it over just to amuse Jake, makes a big show of it looking up at the ceiling and putting his hand on his chin. He hums, one long, loud, drawn out breath before saying, “No.”

“Whatever, spoil sport.” Jake says. Richie walks him down to his car, says goodbye as Jake pulls out and heads down the road. Richie watches him go, an easy smile on his face. It was nice having him over, nice laughing and joking and having genuine friend time outside of practice. Fuck, maybe he’ll do it again. 

 _Eddie [7:45pm]: maybe i do_ _  
_ _Richie [8:03pm]: name it toots_

To be frank, Richie isn’t sure what’s come over him. It’s not like his plan was to dance around Eddie like he needed to walk on egg shells, but he sure as fuck didn’t expect any kind of banter to be a thing. But it feels like they’ve got some kind of banter down? Something to throw back and forth. It feels risky, though. Every time he hits send, a cold chill runs through him. What if it doesn’t land? What if this is the text to start it all up again?

The drive over is short and Richie gets there just in time to grab a good seat. He waits patiently. Bev’s told him this a thousand times: _always count on the show starting at least 15 minutes late._

Not only is Bev in theater, but she’s in show choir, too. Most of the time she goes from class to show choir practice to theater practice. She spends all evening every single night singing and dancing until she can’t walk anymore, then she gets up and does it all again. 

Unlike theater, though, show choir is a moving ensemble. Theater has a million moving parts. They have tech, pit orchestra, lights, sound, dances, scripts, you name it. Show choir, though, has moves and music. They spend three weeks preparing their show as compared to theaters three months. Then, they take off on tours around the county, one or two shows a week. They sing and dance to roughly ten songs, go to churches and country clubs and libraries and perform for anyone who is willing to book them. 

He sits in the pews of some church he never learned the name of, somewhere two towns over, and he watches her. 

Bev looks gorgeous, wrapped up in the arms of her partner on stage. She sways with the music, feet moving in calculated motions from one step to the next. Richie can hardly tell that she’s acting; hell, she looks like this is what she does for fun in her spare time. Well, maybe it is, but it’s still work. Like, a crazy amount of work. It’s magic, the way she makes it look so flawless and easy. If he didn’t know the behind the scenes work, he’d say this is nothing but natural. 

The song ends and the group of them scatter to new positions, Bev stepping in front of an unrecognizable boy in the front row. He puts his hands on her waist and they stand together, bright smiles resting naturally on their face. An upbeat tempo starts up and they sway back and forth for two beats and then Bev spins out, throws an arm up and brings it down, bending at the knees. Then, she opens her mouth and beauty comes out. The words, perfectly annunciated, trickle off the tip of her tongue and she spins back into her partner. Step, step, dip, step, spin, sashay. God, no wonder she’s in the front row. 

The tempo switches again, same song but something a little more carefree now. The dance moves become carefree, too, and Richie laughs and the way Bev shakes her hips and boogies down with this unknown face. She looks so happy, so bright and centered on that stage.

When it’s all over, Richie is standing and hollering. Bev can’t help but laugh from where she is, front row, left wing, arms outstretched and a huge grin on her face. Richie can see the shimmer of sweat beading across her forehead. 

God, he’s so proud. It wells up in his chest and spills out in the tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Look at her up there. God, his best friend. She’s so happy and accomplished and she’s so _good_. 

She shares the same eyes when hers catch his, a small stream of tears running down the side of her face, lower lip quivering. He claps until his hands are red and glowing and then he doesn’t stop, not until the performers are dismissed and she’s flying off the stage and into his arms. 

“I’m so happy you made it!” She squeals right into his ear, making ringing sound through his skull. He ignores it, though, squeezing her so tight the squeal turns into a wheeze. 

“You were so good! Fuck, you gotta teach me how to move like that,” He says, wiggling with her still in his arms. She laughs, high pitched and elated, trying to shimmy along with him but can’t. 

“You’re gonna break me in half,” She groans, speech weak from the force of Richie’s hug.

“Don’t care,” Richie says, stilling and burying his nose into her hair. It’s damp, which is awful, but he hardly cares. 

He doesn’t let go until she smacks him twice and steps on his foot, the heel of her shoe threatening pain. She still beams up at him, though. Tired, overjoyed smile resting on her lips. 

They make their way out of the church relatively quick. Bev thanks her director and says she’s got a ride, says goodbye to some friends, and then they’re gone. 

“Let’s get burgers, babe,” Richie says as soon as they climb into his truck. 

She hums in response, nodding as she clicks her seatbelt in. The radio plays, The Black Keys _Gold On The Ceiling_ ringing out between them. Richie croons along with it, voice going gravelly at the chorus. Bev sings with him, matching his with a low range harmony. 

They pull into the drive through and Richie orders for two, paying at the window and stealing a handful of fries before handing the bag over to Bev. 

“God, nothing like McDicks after a grueling performance, am I right?” She says, popping a few of her own fries into her mouth. 

Richie throws his head back and laughs from his gut. “McDicks, perfect for all of your dick needs.”

“Hungry? Just stop by McDicks. They’ll be sure to fill you right up!”

“Low budget? Don’t worry! McDicks is your cheap alternative. It’s slightly disappointing, but hey, it does the job.”

It’s Bev’s turn to cackle and she throws a fry at Richie. He can feel it bouncing off his temple and he swats over at her, smacking the bag and shouting dramatically. This earns him another fry to the face. 

“Okay, okay!” He says, resigning and pulling into an empty space. He cuts the engine and unbuckles, turning to face her. There’s a quick squeak and then two more fries come at him. 

“Bev, Jesus Christ!” He catches on and bats the other away. “You’re wasting precious cargo!”

She lets him snatch the bag away to fish out his food before handing it back. 

“Someone’s hungry,” She says, unwrapping her burger. 

He can’t quite talk with food in his mouth, but he tries anyway. The result is a jumbled version of _fuck you_ that sounds much more _uck oo_. The look she gives him is ridiculous because hey, it’s damn near impossible to take anyone seriously in that tone of voice. 

She takes a bite of her own food, waiting until she can swallow it down before saying, “Stan and Eddie’s tutoring started.”

Richie looks up from his burger and watches her, waits for her to say something else. She doesn’t. She hardly even looks at him. 

This isn’t new information. What? Does she think he doesn’t know this? He’s the one who set them up, for Christ's sake. 

“Yeah, it did,” He says, taking another bite. His eyes are still on her, waiting for her to make a move, show her hand. 

“How you doing with that?”

“Fine.”

“Says Eddie is really nice,” She goes on, taking his silence as permission to speak. “He’s been feeling him out.”

“Oh yeah?” This Richie didn’t know. Stan has been busy, his schedule filling up tighter and tighter. Right before Richie gave Stan Eddie’s information, Mike Hanlon requested tutoring services. Stan burned a deep crimson at Richie’s lewd illusion to tutoring of another variety. 

“Yeah,” Bev hums, taking another bite and drawing out the space between them. Richie doesn’t need to know any of this. He doesn’t even care, not really. But Bev’s got him hooked like an idiot fish on a hook, slowly reeling him in spin by spin. “Eddie really sucks at calc. Apparently they meet up three times a week.”

“Who knew Eddie was a dumbass,” Richie says, voice airing on the side of nonchalant. Now, Bev looks at him, eyes scanning him up and down. 

“I mean, that much was pretty clear.”

Then, she goes quiet. Richie just hangs on the edge of his seat, waiting for her to say something else, to keep going. She can’t lead with that and then just stop. She’s teasing him. Fuck, she’s teasing him and she knows it. He can see that smug fucking look on her face. Oh, she thinks she’s just enjoying the food but no, that’s not all it is. She’s also enjoying the torment she’s putting Richie through. 

_Eddie [9:34pm]: hows your night_

Richie looks up at the previous message and the time between them. More than an hour since Eddie texted him last. Maybe that last message _didn’t_ land well, but at least Eddie didn’t blow up. It’s still weird to know they’re texting now, to know that, hey this is a thing that’s happening. But it’s also nice. For the insanely short amount of time it’s been happening, Richie’s decided he kind of likes it. 

 _Richie [9:35pm]: Good. I’m with Bev_  
_Eddie [9:36pm]: fun. i saw stan earlier_ _  
_ Richie [9:36pm]: Yeah I heard the tutoring is going well. I’m glad

When he looks up, Bev is watching him, eating her fries like popcorn at a teen drama movie screening. 

He places his phone on the dashboard of his truck and levels her with a look that is equal parts unamused and exasperated. “Yes?” 

“Nothing,” She hums, pouring the last of her fries into her mouth and chewing slowly. She lets a minute or two pass between them before she says, “I’m glad we all had that talk. You seem better.”

“I feel better,” He says back, letting his guard down. “I think me and him can move past it.”

“Good,” She says and she smiles, no longer like she watching a movie but like she’s sharing food with her best friend in a shitty pickup truck late at night. 

Somewhere on his dashboard, his phone buzzes again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm never writing text conversations again they're so annoying lmfao
> 
> Update!! Yay!!! No angst!! Yay!! I didn't finish the playlist because I've been studying for my licensure exam but we'll get there! I will see you guys again hopefully soon but for now enjoy this filler but also not a filler chapter! We love friends being friends!!!!


	14. R Squared Plus E Squared Equals C Squared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t say anything at first, he just stares at Richie, eyes scanning his face as if he’s deep in thought. The scared furrow of his eyebrows as tilted into something more serious, something almost contemplative. Then, out of nowhere he asks, “Are you free tonight?”
> 
> “Uh,” Richie’s brain practically short circuits because what the fuck?

There’s mud where Richie steps out onto his front lawn. The toe of his boot sinks in a little bit, slides from the pressure of him stepping off with his back foot. It catches him off guard, makes him wobble where he’s standing, his grip on the Tupperware container tightening in a desperate attempt to keep it safe. 

God, if he drops it. 

Once his balance is steady, he works his way through the grass, around his parents’ cars and back onto the pavement of his driveway. When he looks back, he can see the indentation of where his foot was and he wonders if Maggie will be upset when she notices it later. Probably. Oh well, maybe they shouldn’t park so close to the god damn garage, then. What do they expect Richie to do? Hurtle their cars like obstacles at a track meet? No way. Richie can’t even hurtle his dirty t-shirt on his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. 

He scrapes his muddy boot along the pavement for a second and then tosses his backpack and duffle into the passenger’s seat. Then, he gingerly places the Tupperware on the floor and climbs into the driver’s side. 

She starts up easy, warmer weather gentle on her aging engine, and then Richie’s off. 

The drive is easy, it’s one he’s been doing since he got his learner’s permit. He’d steal the car for a quick spin around the block but end up following the same paths he biked for years. It’s simple, quick. A left turn out of his house, a right turn at the stop sign. Go straight for several blocks and then hang a left. The destination is on your right. Enjoy your stay at Casa De Grumpy. 

It isn’t even five minutes before Richie’s cutting the engine and grabbing the container. 

All of the cars in the driveway are gone except one. It sits parked in the top right, nose touching right up against the closed garage door. Jesus, why does everyone do that?

He’s careful to avoid the grass here. It’s not his own lawn and he’ll catch a lot more hell for it here than he would with his own parents. Not even from the adults, no, from one - 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” A voice calls out as the door swings open. 

“Good morning to you, too, Stanley,” Richie says, smiling as he slowly makes his way up the path to the front door. 

Stan is waiting in the open door frame, arms crossed and hair absolutely insane. Normally tight ringlets are sticking up in every single direction. It’s a stark contrast to the crisp folds of his pajamas. The creases look freshly ironed despite having been slept in, the small, red and blue birds that dot his pajamas are vibrant against the soft blue fabric. Really, it’s a whole ass look. Stan the Man, ready to win the hearts of the entire student body with his Cold Couture. 

He grunts as Richie walks past him, already having slipped his boots off and left them outside. “Seriously, what’s up?”

“What, a guy can’t bring his best friend a homemade soup?” Richie says, pushing the container towards Stan. Stan gives him a weary look, popping open the corner of the lid to peer inside. 

He snaps it shut, almost with approval, before saying, “What, did Maggie send this over?”

Wow, what a fucker. Richie’s torn between giving Stan the driest, most unamused look he can conjure up at seven in the morning or shooting him some dramatic, overplayed damsel reaction. 

Instead, he settles for something between the two. 

“Stan!” He gasps, hand on his chest, “I’m offended.” Despite the dramatics of his actions, his voice gives little in the way of emotion. 

Stan laughs at this, dry humor being the type to break through his facade. His laugh, though, sounds dry and brittle, like he’s been up coughing all night. 

“You didn’t make it, though, did you?” He asks, humorous caution creeping into his voice. 

“Oh,” Richie says, waving his arm, “Nah, Mags made it. But she didn’t ask me to bring it over, that was all my idea. Best friend number one right here.”

Stan rolls his eyes and walks into the kitchen, putting the soup in the fridge before turning around and giving Richie a grateful smile. “Thanks, man.”

“Sure.” Richie smiles at Stan before walking over and sitting on the reclining chair that sits at the far back center of the living room. 

“Don’t you have class or something?”

“Fuck it, even if I left now I’d still be late. I’ll just catch second.”

“God, no wonder you’re failing.”

Richie lugs a stray pillow at Stan and sticks his tongue out, half expecting to be ousted from his spot on the chair and the house altogether. Instead, Stan just stares at him, tossing the pillow back and grabbing a blanket off the couch. He wraps himself up in it, so tight it looks like he shouldn’t be able to breathe, and then settles down. 

The television casually flicks on and then the sound of Steve Harvey’s voice is filling the living room, enthusiastically explaining the rules of the game to the two families on the screen. Just as Richie’s starting to get into it, he can feel the distinct buzz on his phone against his thigh. He shoots a quick glance over at Stan to see if his phone went off, too, but Stan’s got his bleary, unfocused eyes trained on the show. 

“Candy! You can buy candy for less than a dollar - no! This guy, Richie, I swear. Who buys an envelope for less than a dollar?”

Whether it’s Bev to their group chat or not, Richie fishes his phone from his pocket, figuring he might as well check it. 

 _Eddie [7:32am]: out sick?_ _  
_ _Richie [7:34am]: Have no fear Eds, I’ll be in later. Just had to make a quick pit stop_

Richie pockets his phone and suddenly, the image of Eddie looking for him in the hall crosses his mind. How the hell did he notice Richie wasn’t there? Was he looking for him? That’s weird, though. At least a little bit. This entire situation is weird, the texting, the small smiles, the weird laughs. Everything is strange about how quick they seemed to move on. And that’s at least a little bit Richie’s fault. He just had to go and forgive Eddie, he just had to go and text him back and act like they were cool. And look where that’s gotten him, now Eddie is looking for him in the hallway as if they’re friends. It makes something heavy settle in his chest, makes it burrow down and take hold of his lungs, shorten his breath a little bit. It’s uncomfortable but it also drives a spike of adrenaline through him. Uncomfortable adrenaline. 

Somewhere next to him, Stan's coughs are drowned out by the cheers of a televised audience. It’s just enough to pull him out of his head and back into the moment. 

“How are you feeling?” Richie says, letting his head lean back against the chair and slowly loll to the side. Stan’s already looking at him, his usual look of skepticism tarnished by his bloodshot eyes and pale skin. 

“Like death,” He says back and god that’s an accurate statement. He _looks_ like death. 

“Don’t die on me, now,” Richie says. Then, almost suddenly, he stands, a _be right back_ falling from his lips as he makes his way around the corner and into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet opens easily enough and, oh fuck, where is it? It’s gotta be in here somewhere. It’s a goddamn medicine cabinet, how cluttered can be it? Apparently, very. You know, for the Uris house he never expects things to be as out of order as they are. Sure, Stan’s got his shit together, sure he’s organized and well kept, but underneath it all lays a very subtle layer of chaos that very few people get the pleasure of seeing. This specific layer of that chaos is the atrocity that is his downstairs bathroom, a place where you’re _supposed_ to be able to – 

Oh, nevermind. 

Richie grabs the cold and flu medicine from the top back corner of the cabinet – tucked behind a value sized bag of cough drops that he also grabs for good measure – and then makes his way back into the living room. He tosses the medicine onto Stan’s lap and the sound and sudden feeling of it makes Stan damn near fall off the couch. 

“Gee, thanks,” Richie hears Stan mumble as he takes his place back in the chair. From the corner of his eye, he can see Stan open the medicine and take two pills before unwrapping a cough drop. 

His phone buzzes again and he retrieves it from his pocket. 

 _Eddie [7:36]: dont call me that_  
_Richie [7:37]: You love it_ _  
Eddie [7:37]: you wish_

“Damn, Rich, who’s blowing up your phone? And don’t say Bev, she never wants any more than a one word conversation this early.” Stan’s looking at him again, the clouds in his eyes already beginning to lift either from interest or the medicine. Probably interest, Stan’s a nosy fucker. 

“Texting your mom,” Richie quips, “You know how much she loves those good morning texts.”

Stan doesn’t say anything back, doesn’t take the bait Richie’s laid in the water. Instead, he just watches, just keeps his eyes trained on Richie so much so that even when Richie turns away he can still feel them lingering. It makes him put his phone away and stare at the television, no matter how little he pays attention. It’s better this way. 

They fall into a comfortable silence, Stan becoming reabsorbed into the show and Richie becoming reabsorbed into his own mind. He stares forward, thinks about the game he has tonight and the upcoming exams he has this week. Midterms are looming over their heads, shadowing everyone in their class except maybe Richie himself. Tests are easy, they’re nothing to worry about. He’s been a straight A student for as long as he can remember. 

The game, though? That’s a little bigger. The team has gone all season with pretty mixed reviews. They’ll lose a couple games just to make them up later on in the season. It seems like they can’t really get ahead, every win is challenged by a loss and they always come out even in the end. 

No one’s complaining, though. Hell, the coach is happy as a clam at the bottom of a riptide. He drills them harder at practice, makes sure everyone knows their position and is on top of their shit. But at games, he’s whooping and hollering and pushing the boys to _swing harder, run faster, you’ve got this!_

Varsity plays today, too, but Richie doesn’t know how they’re doing. Good, probably. Maybe even championships good, but that’s not until June. Still, though. Richie can’t really remember any times he’s heard of them losing a game, so that’s gotta mean something, right?

Fuck, imagine going to playoffs. That’s got to be _insane_. Has Derry ever gone that far before? Who fucking knows, it’s not like Richie ever cared about anything even vaguely sports shaped before joining baseball. Before, the only thing he knew was _hit ball run fast touchdown_. Now, he knows it’s much more complicated than that. It’s more like _okay swing the bat no more than three times and run run run okay stop! Wait, run again! Run faster!_ with a little bit of _go on, go on, boys! Go get the ball! Now, throw it as hard as you can!_ Which Richie thinks is a much more accurate way to describe baseball. 

Now take all of that sweet, sweet imagery and imagine _playoffs_. Imagine doing that with the best teams in the state – no, the best teams in the country! God, the pressure would be so high. Every move, every thought, every swing of the bat would be exhilarating. Richie wouldn’t even be out there but he’d be on the bench, maybe even glued to the fence, and watching his team take home the gold. 

“Not that I’m complaining, but are you gonna stay here all day or are you gonna go to class?” Stan says, ripping Richie from his thoughts for the second time that morning. Richie just glances at him and then back toward the television, where the little digital clock sits, and checks the time. 

Would you look at that, it’s time for Richie to go. 

Richie throws his weight forward, rocking the chair with him, and pushes his weight off until he steadying himself on his feet. “As much as I’d love to stay, they won’t let me play if I miss school.”

Stan hums in response, yawning as Richie walks to the front door and opens it. He waves, whispering a _thank you_ that’s swallowed by another yawn, and then Richie is out the door, slipping his boots on and making his way down the driveway. 

He makes it back to school in time for his second class of the day, sitting through it with all of the bored, restless energy he didn’t have at Stan’s house. Yeah, sure, school might not be _hard_ but it’s definitely not relaxing. Especially with teachers breathing down your neck while they go over lesson plans and study guides or whatever bullshit is on the agenda. 

Lunch is spent in the music room with Bev while she rehearses her solo from the upcoming play. He sits at the piano and plucks keys out so Bev can check and make sure she’s on pitch. It’s almost soothing to be in here with her. Music is something Richie has always had an easy love for, whether it’s singing along to his radio or plucking out random chords on his guitar. Piano is no different. He took enough lessons when he was little to still remember the basics. At least, he remembers enough to be able to read music and pick the notes Bev needs him to pick. 

When the bell rings, she leaves him with a quick kiss on the cheek and a thank you. He nods at her, following her out of the music room and into the hall. She heads towards the other side of the school, waving as she goes and Richie just makes his way to his locker, eager to switch his textbooks out. 

“Had to run an errand, huh?” Eddie asks, coming to stand right next to Richie’s locker. It’s alarming at first. They don’t really _talk,_ they text. It’s a lot easier and, if Richie’s being honest, it’s been a good way to curb any of his leftover emotions.  

He’s not close enough that Richie might bump into him, but he’s closer than he’s been since Richie put his hands on him. Hell, if Richie wanted to he could reach out and do it now, get his hands on the collar of Eddie’s shirt and push, pull, drag. He could do whatever, even swing a fist. 

The urge isn’t there, though. Not even a little bit. Instead, Richie finds himself amused and a little curious, pulling a textbook out of his locker and turning to face Eddie. 

“What? Jealous?” Richie raises one eyebrow and looked at Eddie, face slightly red but challenging at the same time. 

“Of you? Yeah, right,” He says back, arms crossed over his chest, puffing the arms of that stupid varsity jacket. For a second, Richie wants to reach and press into the leather, see how it gives under the pressure of his hand. It looks stiff, but is it? It can’t be if Eddie wears it practically every damn day. There are cracks in the creases and little faded stains on the arms and on the body of it, signs of being well loved and worn. 

Before Richie even realizes he’s staring, Eddie reaches into this jacket pocket and pulls his own phone out, scrolling through. His eyes focus on the screen for maybe five seconds before his arm falls down to his side and - well, it’s probably a good thing Richie is staring because Eddie’s face drops as dramatically as his arm did, eyes going wide and brows furrowing up. “Oh, shit. Stan’s out sick?”

“Yeah, man. Looks like death reincarnated. Trust me, dude, you don’t want what he’s got.”

“Fuck – no, c’mon!” Eddie’s other hand comes up to tangle in his hair and now he looks frantic, eyes cast down and scanning Richie’s feet as if they hold to answer to whatever the fuck is going on inside his head. 

“Whoa, Eds, chill. He’ll be fine. Just, like, give him a day or two and he’ll be back on his feet,” Richie tries to sound gentle but it doesn’t land because Eddie’s head just snaps up, eyes still wide. 

“No, you don’t – _fuck_. We had a thing!”

A thing with Stan? What kind of thing does Eddie have with Stan? There’s no way Richie doesn’t know about it, Stan tells him practically everything, so something is up here. Something isn’t making sense and Richie has half a mind to start texting Stan himself, demanding to know what the fuck is up. What the fuck is up, Stan? No what did you say, dude? What the fuck, dude? Step the _fuck_ up Stan.

“A thing? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got it hot for Stanley, now. I don’t know how to break it to you, but he’s got it hot for our boy Mikey so –”

“Shut it, Richie, we had a _study_ thing. I have my calc midterm tomorrow.”

“Oh.” 

Right. Well, that makes more sense. 

“Yeah, _oh._  Oh, as in _oh fuck what the hell am I going to do_?”

Now Eddie’s moving past Richie, going down the hall a few steps and coming back in a tight circle. Around him, kids are walking off in various directions, dodging the hyperventilating maniac pacing in front of Richie’s locker. It’s almost unnerving, the way his breaths are coming in short little puffs, the way his eyes are flitting back in forth in a way that tells him Eddie’s not even looking where he’s going right now. No, he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere up above where that little anxiety brain is taking him. 

“Calm down, it’s okay. You’ve been studying with Stan for what, a few weeks now? I’m sure you’re gonna ace this thing,” Richie tries to sound gentle again, tries to bring his voice down to something a little more soothing but it’s hard when Eddie’s voice is only going higher, only getting more pitchy and desperate and scared. It makes Richie think back to the day he gave him Stan’s number, how fucked up he sounded with his voice ricocheting off of the metal walls. He can’t stand it. 

“I’m not ready. I’m gonna fail. Stan was my only hope and now I’m gonna fail.”

“Eddie, shit, it’s okay, calc isn’t even hard. I’m sure you're smarter than you think.” 

God, can Eddie even hear him or is he so manic that all he can hear is the screeching of his own brain? Desperate to get him to stop, Richie puts his hand out and grabs Eddie by the shoulder as he passes by. It’s not rough, but it’s enough to shake Eddie out of whatever headspace he was in. It works, too, because despite the way Eddie jolts and shoots his head to the side to glare at Richie, he stops his pacing. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, he just stares at Richie, eyes scanning his face as if he’s deep in thought. The scared furrow of his eyebrows has tilted into something more serious, something almost contemplative. Then, out of nowhere he asks, “Are you free tonight?”

“Uh,” Richie’s brain practically short circuits because what the fuck? In a matter of ten seconds, Eddie has gone from a manic pixie nightmare to asking him if he’s free. It’s a total three-sixty and Richie doesn’t even know what to say aside from the stupid noises coming out of his mouth. God, he’s probably got steam coming out of his ears, too, right? A broken cog in a half assed machine, snapped by the unpredictable freestylings of Eddie Kaspbrak.  

“You’re good at calc, right?”

Jesus fucking _Christ,_ what is wrong with him? Can he have a normal thought ever? Maybe even once? No, he can’t because _of course_ Eddie was going to ask about calculus. What else was he going to ask about? Richie’s dick? Why would he ask about that?

“Oh, okay. I see how it is. You want me to be your side chick,” Richie manages, steadying his voice to appear as if nothing is unusual on the outside. No confusion, no weird thoughts almost leaking out of the tip of his tongue. Just good old fashion, normal trash jokes.  

Eddie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he just barrels on, smacking Richie’s arm and saying, “Ew, shut up. Can you help me study tonight? I’m sorry, I know it’s weird for me to ask but I have to pass this test tomorrow and I’m just desperate, please.”

God dammit. For a second there, Richie really thought he was going to say no. Really, he did, he promises. But it’s that stupid please that does him in, the way Eddie’s voice goes soft and lilts up at the end, the way his eyes practically beg more than his actual words do. Richie is such a fucking sucker; how could he say no to that? Besides, he’s killer at calculus. It would be a shame to let it go to waste. 

“Yeah, fine,” Richie sighs, making a whole show out of rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “I have a game tonight. Meet me at the diner after.”

“Oh, fuck, really?” Eddie’s expression immediately shifts. It’s almost like he goes through the five stages of grief except instead of anger and bargaining and all that bullshit, it’s more like confusion, excitement and then hesitation. _Jeez, Kaspbrak, don’t look so wary. It’s not like I’m going to just rescind the offer and dance in your face, mocking you for the rest of eternity. Don’t be so dramatic._

“How could I say no to you practically begging?”

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to sigh, just not in an exasperated way. The way he sighs sounds more relieved, “I owe you, Rich.”

As soon as he says it, the bell rings and the hallway begins to clear. In an instant, Eddie goes with the thinning crowd, waving at Richie with a small, thankful smile on his face. 

“Yeah, you do,” Richie says after a second, but Eddie is already gone behind some door to study some subject that he probably won’t use in five years. Then, it’s just Richie and his backpack left in the hall. 

Classes go by as they do. Richie checks the clock, finds it’s moving slower than normal, but still moving. He listens to teachers drone on about things, takes notes when he needs to, but otherwise just lets the day pass by. Really, the big thing on his mind is his game tonight. Sure, now he has plans after, but the game comes first. He doesn’t want to think about anything else, he just wants to play. 

And boy, does he get to. The game comes at him like a freight train. By the time the second inning ends, he’s already got grass stains going up and down the length of his uniform. He’s fielded three outfield hits and he’s gone up to bat once, getting on base. It’s intense. The other team is on their toes. Every time Derry takes on step forward, the other team steps right up next to them. 

Despite the game beating the ever shit out of them, by the time the eighth inning rolls around, they’re only down by one. Everyone is giving it their all on the field from both sides, gritted teeth and risky moves, powerful hits and even more powerful throws. It might be the most vigorous game Richie’s ever played. 

The dirt of the diamond feels loose under his cleats. It gives with each movement he makes, dragging him closer and closer to the earth as he walks out to the plate. In front of him, splashes of orange and white dot themselves across the field, all in ready position. A boy with tight blond hair tucked under his cap stares at Richie from second base. Maybe he would look like Eddie if he were smaller, shorter and thinner around the waist. Richie tells himself it’s nothing but a cheap trick, something to throw his focus off. His brain is working against him full speed. Everywhere he turns, he thinks he sees Eddie. Why now? Why this game? Why does any of this matter so fucking much? It’s just a stupid fucking study session. 

He steps into the batter’s box and waits, watches the pitcher bring his glove up and breathe. Then, he’s winding up and the ball is sailing down the center of the field. Behind him, the second baseman perches on his toes and leans down. He looks like he’s ready to charge at Richie, fuck the whole game and beat him senseless. Why is he thinking about this?

Richie shuts his eyes and swings. His bat connects with empty air and he can hear the snap of the ball hitting the catcher’s glove. 

Fuck. 

Richie steps one foot out of the box and idly swings his bat. He doesn’t step back in until he manages one deep breath in, and then out. 

The pitcher winds up again, gloving coming up and arm going back and then the ball is sailing for the second time. 

Richie watches it, eyes trained on nothing but the spiraling ball of white and red as it comes straight for him, straight into his line. Richie rears the bat back, goes to swing. It takes him a second to realize that the ball _isn’t_ coming straight down the middle. No, this time it really is coming straight for him.

The second baseman leans down on his toes and glares. 

Richie jumps back, tries to pull his body out of the way but it’s futile. The ball connects with his left thigh and pain blooms across the area. It ripples down his thigh and up into his hip, causing him to drop the bat and curse. 

“What the hell?” He screams but no one answers. The pitcher doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look sorry. He just watches as Richie is ushered to first base on a walk. 

Coach Arnold stands in the painted white box by first and waits for him. As soon as he’s standing on base and waiting for the next batter, Coach jogs over and says, “That looked like quite the hit, Rich.”

“I’d give it a zero out of ten. Do not recommend.” 

Coach laughs at this, patting Richie on the shoulder and jostling him a little bit. “They must be scared of you to walk you like that.”

The words ring in Richie’s ear for a moment, the implication loud and clear. His first time up at bat this game, Richie hit a double. His second time, he hit a single but brought another player home. He turns to look at Coach Arnold and when he does, he sees pride and a little bit of determination mixed into his expression. 

 “Take it home, Tozier. Show them what you’re made of.”

He makes his way back to the coach’s box just in time for Charlie to step up to bat. Over the course of the season, Charlie has gone from someone who swings first and thinks second to someone who really pulls his punches in the best ways. He’s spent more time in the batting cages than maybe anyone on the JV team and it’s all paid off. When the ball comes down the middle of the field, it comes just below his knees and the umpire calls out _ball!_

Hell yeah, Charlie. Show them who’s boss. 

The next pitch is a perfect throw and Charlie rears back and swings with everything in his tiny body. The crack of the bat echoes through the field and Richie takes off, not even looking as the ball zooms past him and somewhere into the outfield. 

The second baseman runs to his post, standing over the base and desperately waiting for the left fielder to get the ball and throw it in. His gaze keeps flicking from the field to Richie and then back again but Richie doesn’t stop. He taps the base and keeps going, passes the second baseman and heads straight for third. The crowd roars behind him and Richie swears he can hear his parents apart from everyone else. 

He doesn’t falter as he runs, charging right past a player and tapping his foot on third base. Then, he’s rounding and charging home. He can hear calls for him to _stay, stay Richie don’t go!_ but he keeps pushing, keeps on running down the baseline. The only things in his ear now are the sounds of his own harsh breathing and the bobble of the batting helmet as he runs. 

He’s halfway there but he doesn’t dare look behind him, doesn’t dare look to see where the ball is now. It could be anywhere and one second’s worth of distractions is enough to get him out. He can’t risk it, not when he’s come this far. He’s committed to this, god dammit, he’s going to see it through. 

“Richie!” Someone calls out from behind, someone from the dugout who’s watching this do or die decision. “Down!”

He doesn’t even think, just automatically pushes with his feet and stretches his arms out. Plumes of dust rise off the ground as Richie lands chest first. The sounds of dirt crunching under his body as he slides forward rings in his ear, almost deafening in its volume. 

Though the cloudy haze Richie can see the white base inching forward. His hands are outstretched, fingers as wide as they can go as he moves forward in slow motion. He can see the upside-down V of the catcher’s legs, spread to allow Richie room but allowing his glove to rest dangerously close to where Richie is heading. 

There’s no stopping now, he's in it to win it. 

His hands breech the space under the catcher and he reaches out with one final wiggle of his body, one movement to push him just a little further a little faster and then he’s slamming his hands down on the plate, touching that little white piece of heaven with the palm of his hand, then his arm, then his entire chest as he slides all the way in. 

When he stops, the world goes still. The crowd is no longer cheering and he can practically _feel_ his team holding their breath. He’s just about to get up and start cheering himself when he feels the pressure of a mitt resting on his back. It’s not heavy, just enough to make its presence known, but it might as well weigh a thousand tons because Richie can’t even think about getting up anymore. All he can do is lay in the dirt on top of home plate and wait for the final call. 

It feels like forever that he’s down there, desperate trying to catch his breath without choking on all of the dust he stirred. God, if this was all for nothing, he’ll feel so stupid. It’s only now that he realizes what a big risk he took. He should have just stayed at third, he was guaranteed safe there. Then, he could have come home on the next hit. He could have scored for _real_ instead of risking his place on the diamond. 

“Safe!”

The gruff voice of the umpire echoes across the field and, holy fuck, he did it. He did it! The crowd bursts into roaring cheers and when Richie looks up, he can see his team going absolutely hog wild in the dugout. 

As soon as the mitt lifts off his back, Richie is climbing to his feet and pumping his fists in the air. He can see Charlie, perched on second base doing the same. He’s standing there, only a couple feet from the second baseman and suddenly he doesn’t look so menacing. His eyes aren’t dark, his stance isn’t aggressive. He doesn’t even look like Eddie, anymore. His blond hair is longer, shaggier and he’s taller by a few good feet. Did he always look like that? He just looks like a normal, high school guy. It throws Richie for only a fraction of a second, doing a double take on his way into the dugout. 

Jake is the first to greet him with a bear hug and then he’s getting high fives and hugs from the rest of the team. 

He parks his ass on the bench as soon as he can, pulling his helmet off and unstrapping his batting gloves. Now that he’s finally got a second to rest, the adrenaline starts to wear off and he can feel his limbs shaking in a desperate attempt to compensate for the amount of energy he pushed from his body. Someone hands him a water bottle and he opens his mouth, unceremoniously squirting a stream straight into the back of his throat. It’s cold but it feels nice, evening out the rising temperature of his body while he catches his breath. Somewhere in front of him, he can hear the hollow sound of an aluminum bat connecting with a baseball. The dugout erupts into another cheer but Richie just closes his eyes, lets his head rest against the cool cement of the wall behind him.

The cheering dies down a little bit and Richie cracks an eye open to see Charlie across the field, one foot on third base and the other in front of him; ready position. It’s only then that he stands, walking to the fence with his arms across his chest, hands tucked under his armpits. He finds a nook next to Jake and takes it, pressing his body lifelessly against the chain link fence as he watches as number twelve steps into the batter’s box and strikes out. 

Two outs, now. One more to go. 

By now, his body has reached equilibrium and the shaking has stopped. His breath has been wrangled back in and while he stills feels tired, there’s so much focus on the game that he hardly feels that. He knows he’s got at least one more batter before he’s got to be back on the grass, so he relishes in it, lets his body lean to the side and rest against Jake’s. Jake welcomes it, puts his arm around Richie’s shoulder and whispers, “Good shit out there,” as they both watch number two step up. 

Richie doesn’t even watch number two. No, there are far more interesting things happening on the field. There’s a runner on first and third, now. One of the trickiest plays in the book for a catcher and Richie can’t help the way his eyes flick from the crouching mass of orange and white to the black, tan, and red that stand on first base. 

The pitcher winds up, his own eyes looking toward first base momentarily, and then he throws down the center line. The runner on first stays put and Richie curses under his breath. What is he doing? Why isn’t he running?

If there’s a player on first and third, the boy on first runs on the pitch no matter what. He runs as fast as he can and normally he gets to second base and pushes the game forward. The pressure isn’t with him, it’s with the team on the field. If the catcher throws down to second, Charlie can run home and score. If the pitcher throws to first instead of down the center line, he _might_ get the runner out or he might just be wasting time. He has to rely on the reflexes of his first baseman. Can he catch? Can he throw fast enough if the runner takes off? Will he miss? If he misses, the third base runner will take off and score. 

It’s a game of chess. Who gets to run and who’s strong enough to stop it from happening? The stakes are high. 

Usually what happens is the first base runner will go and the catcher will just let it happen but for some reason, the runner on first isn’t going. It’s hard to watch because Richie knows if it were him out there, he’d go. 

The pitcher winds up again and throws down the center of the field. The pitch is high, higher than anyone expects apparently because the catcher doesn’t react fast enough. He’s distracted by the way the first base runner inches up the field. He misses, ball catching the corner of his mitt instead of the pocket and bouncing away and then suddenly the field is alive with motion. 

Richie practically throws himself against the fence, screaming as the catcher scrambles after the ball. First base shoots off to second and, fuck, Charlie is doing it, he’s going for it. _He’s running home._

What Charlie lacks in size, he makes up for in agility. The ball is running _toward_ him, up the third base line and the catcher is barreling after it, low to the ground so he can scoop it up and tag Charlie. 

Charlie steps, dodges the mass of padding and plastic that covers the catcher’s body, and keeps running. It’s no match, no use in trying to get him because by the time the catcher has one hand on the ball, Charlie has already tagged home and is being welcomed into the arms of his team. 

The first base runner has made it to second and stands, waiting for the field to reset. The batter is still standing with his helmet and his bat, waiting to see how the rest of his turn goes. 

They’re up, now, by one. If they can just hold this lead for one more inning, they’ll win. And boy, do they need to because when the batter hits the ball, it sails right into the glove of the center field player. 

The game ends pretty swiftly after that. The other team get maybe one runner on the bases but the infield does a quick job of cleaning it up. One, two, three, baby, that’s what they all say. Bing, bang, bong. 

Richie lines up with his boys in the middle of the field, a straight line that progresses slowly, high fives and _good games_ muttered between the teams.

Richie is quick to make his way back to the dugout. He’s ready to sit down for real, not with the ever impending sense of movement lingering on the horizon. 

“You played great,” Eddie says from where he’s seated inside the dugout. What the hell – he wasn’t here a minute ago, Richie is sure of it. At least, he wasn’t here when Richie went out onto the field, so to find him now, seated so close to where Richie’s duffle is tucked under the bench, is alarming at best. 

“Eddie, what are you doing here?” Richie asks, mouth always moving at least double the speed of his brain. Sure, sometimes the varsity boys come and watch their games but now that the season is really winding up, it’s been harder to go over and watch the games. Now-a-days the varsity boys just head home after practice, exhaustedly shouting a few encouraging words at the JV team on their way by. It’s nice, sure. No one really expects anyone to linger the entire time, anymore. 

“Oh, uh,” Eddie stumbles and fuck, now Richie feels bad. He hadn’t meant anything by it, really, and just as he’s about to open his mouth to say so, Eddie goes on. “I thought we could drive over together?”

“Oh, yeah,” Comes out quick and dumb and then Richie finds himself nodding. “Sure. Like, together in the same car or –”

He can’t even finish the thought because Eddie jumps in, voice just a quicker and higher than before, “Separate is fine.”

“Cool,” Richie says back. He feels like he should say something else, _anything_ else. A stupid joke or an easy comment or literally anything but he’s coming up blank. All he can do is motion at the bag near Eddie’s feet. 

Eddie apologizes quickly, standing up and stepping to the side while Richie crouches down and pulls the bag out. He tosses his glove in and pulls out a pair of slides before unlacing his cleats. The entire time, he can feel Eddie beside him. Watching, maybe, or just standing there awkwardly until Richie’s ready to go. 

When Richie stands, Eddie is on his phone, scrolling through some mindless social media app. He clears his throat, unsure of how to move this along, and Eddie looks up. 

“I, uh, gotta change and stuff,” He says, motioning to his uniform. The knees are caked with dirt from sliding and his shirt has several grass stains from diving for stray balls, dirt from diving straight through the legs of that catcher; signs of a game well played. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, his own eyes scanning Richie’s form, making Richie feel small for reasons he doesn’t even understand. Then, hisI eyes are suddenly snapping up and locking with Richie’s as he says, “Okay, I guess I’ll just meet you there then?”

Richie nods and Eddie pauses for a second, looking Richie over one more time before walking past and out of the dugout. 

That was fucking weird. 

Richie shakes it off, quite literally shaking his arms and neck out before sitting on the bench to lift his uniform shirt over his head. He quickly replaces it with a team hoodie. 

“Dude, what was that about?” Jake says on his way into the dugout. He parks himself right next to Richie and undoes his own cleats, looking at expectantly. 

“Hm?” Richie hums, continuing to pack up his gear. Jake nods in the direction of Eddie’s retreating form and hums back, more insistent. “Oh, Eddie? I’m helping him study tonight.”

“You’re what?” Jake sounds incredulous and, well, Richie can’t blame it. He hasn’t exactly caught Jake up on the ever turning whirlwind that is their pseudo-friendship. 

“Long story short, Stan is his tutor and got sick and he’s got a midterm tomorrow. So, I stepped in.”

“That’s,” Jake starts and then stops, pausing for just a moment before saying, “Interesting.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head off, Jake da Snake. I promise it won’t end in a police intervention.”

Jake rolls his eyes again. “Do you need me to disguise myself and sit a few booths away? Because I will, I’ll totally do it.”

“As tempting as that is, I think I’ll pass.” With that, Richie gets up and hoists his bag up over his shoulder. “Catch you on the flip side.”

“See ya, brotha,” Jake says and they do that weird bro arm hug back tap thing that Richie has gotten annoyingly good at. So good that he’s attempted to teach Stan only to be rejected harder than that time he tried to ask Kay McCall to the winter formal only to find out she’s a lesbian.Z He _tried_ to insist Stan learn to impress Mike but whatever, fuck him. 

Richie makes his way back into the locker room, trading his uniform pants for sweatpants and slipping off his hoodie so he can put a proper shirt under it. He’s out the door and into his truck in a matter of minutes. 

God, what is he doing? Why the hell did he think this was a good idea? The two of them haven’t been _alone_ alone in years unless they were at each other's throats. And now he is driving to a diner to teach Eddie math? Fucking math? What demonic presence has possessed his body and convinced him that this is in any way, shape, or form a good fucking idea. It isn’t. It’s not a good idea. There’s no way in hell this won’t end poorly. One of them will probably leave the dinner with a fork sticking out of their chest or something. 

Fuck, he can see it now. Richie will make another stupid joke and Eddie will snap. His head will spin around three times and then he’ll lunge forward and slit Richie’s throat with a ballpoint pen. Man, what a way to go. Those poor diner employees will be cleaning up the mess for weeks. 

_C’mon, Eddie, don’t ruin these poor peoples’ nights. Don’t be so rude. Just put the pen down and back away from the calculus book._

Fuck. Richie grips the wheel a little bit tighter as he drives through town. The diner is just a little way ahead and Richie can see Eddie’s car parked out front. The lights are off, maybe he’s inside or something. Richie kind of hopes he is so he can have a second or two to collect himself before going in. 

Well, he’s got shitty lucky so he doesn’t even know why he bothers. Eddie is _not_ inside. He’s leaning up against the hood of his car, phone pulled out and illuminated in the darkening parking lot. He doesn’t react as Richie’s truck pulls into the lot right beside his own car, he just keeps on staring at his phone, scrolling through some social media app that Richie can’t see clear enough to identify. 

The engine cuts off and Richie sits there for a moment, one hand still on the wheel and the other grasping his keys. Eddie is just standing there, back to him and completely absorbed in whatever it is he’s looking at. It’s weird, like super weird. Why doesn’t he turn around? Why hasn’t he come up to the side of Richie’s truck to say something smart or stupid or just plain mundane? Does he even feel awkward? Richie feels awkward. He can feel it in every movement he makes. Even as he lets go of the wheel and reaches for his backpack, he feels awkward. As if every movement is robotic and stuttering and weird. It’s like he can’t just be normal. Eddie’s got to feel this, too. Maybe that’s why he won’t turn around? Because if he does, then the awkwardness will burst into something bigger. 

After a few seconds, Richie pushes the door open and steps out, backpack slung over his shoulder. Eddie turns around at the sound, eyes catching Richie’s. Somewhere behind him, the sun is setting and the light from it, harsh reds and oranges, washes over Eddie. It sets his skin, his hair, his eyes on fire. Something inside of Richie drops at the sight of it, of the boy covered in flames in front of him. It’s captivating, to say the least, the way they dance across his skin. Even his clothes look brighter, dark washed jeans darkened even further by the shadows, the reds of his jacket blazing hot against the whites. 

In, you know, an aesthetically pleasing way. 

“Let’s get this math on the road,” Eddie says after a second. Richie just tightens his grip on his backpack, shifting on his feet to follow Eddie through the doors of the diner. 

They grab a seat towards the back, further away from where Richie normally sits with Stan and Bev, sometimes Jake now. It’s a safety measure, really. If everything goes to shit, he doesn’t want to walk in here and look at _his_ booth and see the mess he’s about to create. If it all goes to hell then he wants those memories tied to a different booth cushion, at the very least.

Eddie’s already pulling his stuff out of his backpack. The textbook goes in the center of the table, open to the first designated chapter. Then, out comes a notebook, several number two pencils sharpened to the tip, and a calculator. Eddie leaves his pencil case on the table, open just enough to show an assortment of erasers and highlighters. 

Richie, on the other hand, pulls out a notebook, two pens, and his phone. 

Eddie bites back a laugh, turning it into something that could be more like a cough than anything. He gives Richie this unimpressed look, one that says something like _and you’re supposed to teach me with that?_

Instead of looking back, or even saying something snarky or quick, Richie just looks down and pulls the textbook closer to get a better look at the material. Eddie doesn’t say anything, either. Not out loud. Silence hangs over them like too many weighted blankets. It threatens to pin them down, suffocate them if need be and fuck, this shouldn’t be so hard. 

They text almost every day, god dammit, both of them always saying stupid, provocative shit to the other. But now? Richie feels like he has the entire Miriam Webster’s Dictionary shoved down his throat, blocking any sentence that may or may not form. 

When he looks up, he only catches Eddie’s eyes for maybe a second before they dart down to the blank notebook in front of him. 

This is going great. 

“Okay,” Richie starts, flipping a few pages ahead. “Limits?”

Eddie just nods, shrugs his shoulders a little bit. He still refuses to actually _look_ at Richie. 

Whatever. Might as well get this over with, then. He launches into a review of the chapter, explaining exactly what a limit is and how to find it. Eddie watches him as he moves through the chapter and then does a practice problem. It takes maybe ten minutes but it feels like two hours. The air is stiff around them. 

Jesus, Richie wants nothing more than to pick up his butter knife and carve at the tension until it’s all gone. He has no idea what it’ll take before that happens, though. They’re both talking like robots, movements mechanical and zero emotion in their tone. 

He’s not sure what he expected, either. For them to spend the entire night joking and laughing? No, not really, but not this. He didn’t expect to be buddy buddy, but he also didn’t expect to be so fucking uncomfortable _._

 _That’s what happens when you almost punch a dude in the face, I guess,_ Richie thinks to himself.

“Richie, darling, so nice to see you. Out on a school night, huh?” a voice shakes him from his thoughts, from the problem he’s helping Eddie work through on the page. When he looks up, a woman in a red uniform and white apron is looking down at the both of them. 

“Mary, hello,” Richie answers, leaning his chin on his hand and smiling sweetly up at her. Richie comes here so often he’s practically part of the staff. Mary is one of his favorite waitresses. She’s older, maybe his mother’s age, and she treats him just like a teenager. It’s kind of nice. She doesn’t scold him the way Maggie might, just listens to his bad jokes and asks about his schoolwork. She does the same for Bev and Stan, too. “Just getting some last-minute cramming in before a big test.”

“Someone’s been procrastinating,” She says. Then, she turns to Eddie and smiles sweetly at him. “And who’s this dashing fellow?”

Richie opens his mouth to answer, but Eddie is quick to cut him off. He sits up and sticks his hand out, shaking hers quickly before introducing himself. She smiles the entire time, tells him that if he’s Richie’s friend, he must be a nice young man and Richie could swear he sees Eddie flush as he looks away. 

She takes their orders – fries to share, chicken tenders, and one hamburger for Richie – before walking away. 

“You come here often?” Eddie asks, finally looking up over his notebook.

“Yeah,” Richie hums, “I’m a regular at this here fine establishment.” He puts a little emphasis on the T, leaning back in his seat and shooting a smug look at Eddie. “Everyone knows my name. I’m practically a celebrity here.”

“The bar is high, I see,” Eddie says back and Richie sputters over a laugh, caught off guard by his sudden change in demeanor. One second he won’t even look at Richie and then he’s spouting off easy insults like they’ve been doing it all night. 

Well, two can play this game. 

“Higher than you’d ever imagine, Spaghetti boy. At least my bar is made of something other than cooked pasta.”

“God, your jokes are so bad.” Eddie rolls his eyes as he says it but Richie can see the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. 

He looks back down at his paper, pencil drawing short lines over his practice problem and Richie watches. He’s got nothing better to do. 

Then, Eddie’s putting his pencil down and shrugging out of his jacket, leaving him in nothing but a black t-shirt and jeans. 

“Whoa,” Richie hears himself say, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that jacket before, Kaspbrak.”

“It’s comfortable,” Eddie says back, not bothering to look away from his practice problem. 

“Yeah, I doubt that,” Richie laughs. “Those leather arms are so big, man. You look so puffed up. Have you seen those TikToks about the Puff Guy?” Richie snickers as he says it, hardly able to contain himself. “You remind me of that.”

“Maybe I’ll let you wear it, sometime,” Eddie shoots back, finally meeting Richie’s gaze. 

He’s about to open his mouth, say something else but suddenly their waitress is back, setting plates between them and breaking the moment. 

Eddie doesn’t seem too shaken by it, grabbing a chicken tender and taking a healthy bite. He goes back to his paper and Richie has to blink a few times. He looks at the jacket that rests in a pile around Eddie’s waist and thinks about himself in it. He thinks about how it would feel on his shoulders. It’s so big, so thick that he can’t tell if he’d feel uncomfortable in something that practically doubles his body size or if he’d feel safe, somehow protected by a big, outer layer. 

He has to shake himself from the thought, put his attention back on Eddie’s homework because he suddenly doesn’t know if he wants Eddie’s jacket or his own. 

“The limit,” He says, looking back down at the textbook and drawing up a new set of practice problems for Eddie to work on next. “What is it?”

“The limit does not exist.”

“What? No – stop fucking quoting Mean Girls.”

Richie doesn’t look up as he says it but soon enough a French fry smacks him on the side of the face. Then, there’s a squeak from the other side of the table and, sure enough, Eddie’s got both hands clamped over his mouth, grey eyes wide with some weird mixture of shock and apprehension. 

“What the actual –”

“The limit is fifteen,” Eddie cuts quickly, eyes darting from Richie down to his own paper that has numbers and lines hastily scrawled across it. 

Richie pauses, watching Eddie carefully before reaching out and snatching the paper. He looks it over, scanning the numbers and stops, and then lowers it slightly. “Correct,” is all he offers in response as he slowly hands the paper back. 

Eddie takes it, a small sheepish grin on his face as he says, “Sorry about the fry, it wasn’t supposed to hit your face.”

“What was it supposed to hit?”

“The paper.”

Richie pauses again and the picks the stray fry off the table. It’s salty as he pops it into his mouth, chewing once in a very deliberate, almost exaggerated way before saying. “You know, for a baseball star you have pretty shitty aim.”

Eddie laughs at that, quiet but bright under the shitty diner lighting. Richie chuckles, too. He can’t help it, that shit is like infectious gas or something. 

“Why are you so worried about this test? You’ve gotten almost every problem right so far,” Richie asks after a few minutes and a few more fries. 

Eddie’s face falls a little bit and he takes a fry for himself, “If I don’t get a good grade on my midterm there’s no way I’ll pass the class. If I don’t pass the class, I can’t play baseball.”

“I don’t get it, man. Baseball is fun but why are you so worked up about it?” It might be an insensitive thing to ask, but that doesn’t stop Richie from asking it. He never really understood the whole jock addicted to their sports thing. Like, why do they center their entire lives and personalities around it? There are better things to do. And maybe not even _better_ per say but at least _more._ There’s so much to do and see and learn and try. Why the hell is Eddie so locked in on this one thing?

“Does it look like I’m gonna get an academic scholarship to college?” Eddie asks. There’s no malice in his voice. If anything, there’s a hint of amusement. Something just off the side of funny. It makes sense, getting a scholarship for baseball but Richie knows first-hand that Eddie doesn’t need one. 

“You don’t need a scholarship, Eds.” Richie flips the page on the textbook, finding the next chapter and writing up some practice problems. 

“It sure would help to have one,” Eddie says. 

“Didn’t your dad leave you, like, so much money when he died?”

Richie never knew Eddie’s dad but he knows about the small fund he had set up in Eddie’s name. Way back when, Eddie told him all about how it was for college so he could go and have the best education ever. His dad set it up specifically so when he turned eighteen, he wouldn’t have to worry about how to send him to school. The nest egg would already be there and Eddie would have full access to it the year he would leave for college. No matter what would happen between Frank’s death and graduation, Eddie would be able to pursue his dreams. 

“Yeah, he did,” Eddie says and, again, no malice tints his tone of voice. If anything, it’s more contemplative, thoughtful even. It makes Richie lift his head from the textbook. Eddie isn’t looking anywhere near Richie, though. He’s looking out the window, towards something far off and unnamable. “But if I’m ever going to be able to make it on my own, I need that money. I did all the math, a baseball scholarship will make it so when I leave I never have to come back here. I can live off of that money until I graduate and find a job.”

“Whoa,” Richie breathes, setting the pencil down on the table. “That’s,” he starts and then stops, thinking for the right words to say. Eddie’s looking at him now, not expectantly but looking nonetheless. It makes Richie feel like he has to do something, reach out across the table and take Eddie’s hand or say something profound and reassuring. 

How bad have things gotten? Yeah, Richie knows that Eddie’s mother isn’t the most sane person on Earth but Eddie’s always loved her. At least, as far as he knows. For all the years Richie knew him, Eddie talked highly of his mother. He took care of her, worshiped the ground she walked on. Sure, she was flawed but how bad could things have possibly gotten after the asthma incident?

“Yeah,” Eddie says, filling the space between them. 

After a second, Richie does the only thing he knows how to do: Ask questions. 

“Sonia’s still off her rocker, then?” 

“You don’t even know,” Eddie chuckles.

“This is upsetting news, Eddie Spaghetti. I had a date with her later on tonight but after hearing this? I think I’m gonna have to break things off. Maybe I can get my dick wet just one more time…”

This time instead of just one fry, Richie gets pegged with a handful. Eddie’s laughter echoes around the entire diner as he screeches, “Fuck you, Richie! You are so disgusting!”

Richie laughs back, holding up his notebook to protect himself from the second barrage of fries. Then, in a moment of desperation and stupidity, he picks up fries of his own and hurls them at Eddie. This earns another loud squeak before Eddie changes weaponry, throwing a pen straight at Richie’s face. 

Richie doesn’t retaliate. Behind Eddie, he can see the exhausted face of their poor waitress so he opts to let Eddie run out of steam instead of egging him on. It seems, though, that the pen is the last of it. Thank fucking god. 

Richie slowly lowers his notebook, putting his hands up in defense and saying, “Truce! Truce!”

After a few more seconds of stray laughter, Eddie agrees and shakes Richie’s hand. They clean the small mess up, together, using one of the empty plates from their dinners and placing it to the side.

“So, how about those math problems,” Richie says, popping one of the few clean fries they have left into his mouth. 

“How about ‘em,” Eddie says back. He pulls his notebook back in front of him and listens as Richie explains the next set of problems. 

They work until their waitress comes around, clearing the now empty fry plate as well as the other plates. They place an order for milkshakes and keep it going. Richie walks him through maybe four chapters worth of math problems, stopping each time to thoroughly explain all the steps and why Eddie has to do them. He listens to all of Eddie’s questions, drawing out examples on scrap paper and breaking steps down into even smaller steps. 

By the time they finish, it’s nearing ten o’clock at night. The sun has been down for hours and the only things lighting the outside world are street lights, headlights, and storefronts. Time really slipped away there for a while, didn’t it?

“Fuck, I have like a thousand missed calls from my mom,” Eddie says, checking his phone as he shoves his textbook and notebook into his backpack. “I’m a dead man walking.”

“Just tell her you were at a study group,” Richie says, putting his own things away and seeing a missed text from his mother asking when he’ll be home. He types out a quick reply to her. _Don’t worry ma, I’ll be home in twenty minutes tops._ “But mommy, you can’t get mad. It’s for my education!”

“Ugh,” Eddie grunts, rolling his eyes, “Shut up.”

“Maybe it’ll work.”

“Over your dead body.”

Richie laughs now, standing up and stretching his back while Eddie heads to the register. He pays for the meal, just like a true gentleman. Richie and his wallet thank him on their way out. 

They stand together in front of their cars, nothing but a curt breeze of air passing between them. More than once, Eddie looks like he’s about to say something. His mouth opens for a second, then snaps back shut into a smile that somehow looks both fake and genuine at the same time. 

Richie doesn’t bother to break the silence. Even if he wanted to, he has no idea what he would say. Sure, he could spit some raunchy or stupid joke out, one that he’s filed away in the back of his brain specifically for awkward moments. He doesn’t want to, though. For some reason, he’d rather stand in the crisp nighttime silence just staring down at the kid he’s got complicated feelings for. 

Wait, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Complicated is one word for it, sure. Complicated in that Richie isn’t sure if he hates Eddie or tolerates him. He should hate him, yeah, but he’s had that internal battle for weeks now. Even when he’s at peak frustration, he doesn’t hate Eddie. How could he? There’s too much in there, he knows Eddie too well. Even after so long, he couldn’t not know Eddie. He couldn’t not _love_ Eddie. 

Wait, no. Too strong of a word. Back it up, there, Tozier. Rein that shit in. 

Sure, maybe he loves Eddie. But, like, love in the sense that the two of them used to be attached at the hip. That kind of nostalgia doesn’t just go away, especially without any real closure. How could he ever forget something like that? They used to lie side by side on the carpet during silent reading time, pointing out little passages in the books they were assigned. They used to share snacks during lunch and have playdates in Eddie’s living room. They built blanket forts over Richie’s couches and played with matchbox cars on the sidewalk. Richie remembers it all; he remembers how it felt to be Eddie’s friend. 

And now he’s got Eddie in front of him, staring up at him with this plastered on smile and, fuck. How long have they been standing here?

Well, that doesn’t matter apparently because without warning Eddie moves, dragging his jacket tighter. He rocks onto the balls of his feet, pitching forward ever so slightly and Richie’s entire heart drops into his ass because for a split second, he thinks Eddie is going to lean in and kiss him. 

Or hug him. Probably hug. That’s a more logical assumption, right? Friends hug each other and they’re friends now, right? Friends notice when friends aren’t at school and they help friends study for big exams. Friends buy dinner and joke and laugh together.  

Friends hug each other outside of diners lit by shitty neon signs and in those nanoseconds, Richie steels his entire mind and body for whatever it is Eddie is going to do next. 

Nothing happens, though. Eddie rocks back onto his heels and smiles up at Richie, bigger and softer than the one he was wearing before, and says, “Well, goodnight Richie.”

“Night, Eds,” Richie says back and then Eddie is walking around to get into his own car, turning the engine over and buckling up. Richie finds himself releasing a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, anticipation exuding out of him in a slow, steady stream of air. A weird feeling settles over him, then. He can’t place it, but it’s in the rapid beating of his heart in his chest and the way his arms were already starting to open up. Even his chin started to tilt to the side, ready to welcome Eddie’s head beneath it or maybe… 

Before Eddie’s car pulls out of the lot, the passenger window rolls down and Eddie leans across his center console to say, “One more thing – don’t call me Eds. You know I hate it when you do that.”

He says it with crinkles on his nose and at the corners of his eyes and Richie feels his entire body stop working. Hell, even his mind stops working as it turns over every possible response. _No can do, Eddie. You know you love it. Quit breaking my heart. Never talk to me again, I just can’t handle you. Get back out here, I don’t know what I want from you but I know I want something_ all play through his head like a scratchy recording of some decades old radio head. God, he’s got to look so stupid right now. Like a fish out of water with his stupid big eyes behind his stupid big glasses and his mouth working the shapes of words he’s not saying. 

Good thing Eddie pulls away because Richie isn’t sure if he’d ever figure out what it is he really wanted to say. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOA, WE'RE HALFWAY THERE. WHOA-OH, LIVING ON A PRAYER
> 
> Wow I haven’y gotten a chapter out this fast since I first started writing it! Believe me, I’m super excited about this. I also spent probably an hour trying to relearn calculus so I could make the math lesson believable before I gave up and just started implying shit. I knew calculus once upon a time…. Five years ago when I was in college lmfao. I may or may not have been procrastinating studying for my licensure exam next Saturday. Whoops.
> 
> As always thank you all for the wonderful support! Getting such amazing comments on this makes me so excited to write it. It makes me feel like everyone is as invested in this universe as I am. It’s a really cool feeling knowing that I’m creating something that other people are truly enjoying. Thank you for sharing this experience with me. 
> 
> For those of you who asked, I finished the Spotify playlist! If you want to listen, [Follow This Link!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7lQDngubAfYoXcBTi53ZE1?si=1SvBoyATReWQYG1OiMSEAQ) I’m also going to be including the link in the chapter posts from now on. You don’t have to listen to it in order, but for the most part the songs follow the story. I hope you guys enjoy it! I’d LOVE to hear your thoughts about it in the comments. 
> 
> Until next time, loves!


	15. Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie snaps back first His voice goes back to that high, fast tone and he says, “You guys have to let me thank you.”
> 
> Stan laughs again, this time almost incredulously. “Eddie, you pay me. I’m your tutor, it’s literally my job.”
> 
> Eddie sputters for a second but by the time he’s ready to push back against Stan, Stan’s cutting him off with a quick, “You don’t pay Richie, though. Maybe you could thank him?”

When the week starts off, it’s relatively normal. No changes, no bumps in the road. Maybe there’s longer interactions with Eddie, but that’s kind of expected. The tension seems to have broken and Richie really can’t say he minds. It makes baseball easier. He finally feels like he can breathe in the locker room again and while the guys don’t understand the sudden shift, no one is worried that Richie’s going to fly off the handle again. 

By the time Thursday rolls around, both baseball teams have another win under their belts and energy is riding high throughout the school. Warmer weather is peaking out more and more every day and the barn fever that everyone was feeling is only just beginning to explode. People are ready, itching to get out and let out some energy. 

Which is why Richie shouldn’t be surprised when he hears a familiar voice echoing down the hallway.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. 

“Guys, holy fuck!” Eddie howls, jumping in the air as he barrels down the hall. Richie startles but Stan doesn’t, almost as if he knew Eddie was going to careen around the corner at any second. 

“Speak of the devil,” He says, voice quiet enough that Eddie doesn’t hear when he finally reaches them. 

Even if he did hear, though, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. He’s too keyed up, high energy practically leaking out of his pores. “Look, fucking _look_.”

He’s got a thick stack of papers clutched in his hand tight enough that the center is crinkled. Richie can see lines of ink through the back but it’s pressed to Eddie’s chest, hiding any legible writing from view. 

“Can’t look if you don’t show us,” Richie says, making a dramatic show of looking from Eddie’s face to the papers. 

“Oh!” He scrambles for a moment, nearly dropping the papers in his haste to flip them around. He doesn’t, though, and Richie and Stan look on in mild amusement as he struggles to get a solid grip on them before he holds them up. His smile beams brighter than the white of the paper and in huge, red, blocky letters is an uppercase A. “I passed my midterm!”

There’s a brief second where Richie feels the wind punching out of his gut. Something wells up inside of him, bright and all consuming. His arms twitch out from his side, his body sways toward the magnetic pull he feels, and all at once he squashes down the urge to lift Eddie into a full-blown spinning hug. It sends him teetering on his feet for just a second. 

“You didn’t just pass it, you killed it!”

Eddie looks on from behind his test. His eyes are a bright, shining silver. Stan congratulates him quietly, a small but genuinely smile stretched over his own features and Eddie just keeps on beaming, keeps on _glowing_ in the middle of the hall. 

“Guys,” Eddie starts, voice overflowing with something Richie can’t name. It sits on the tip of his tongue but never comes to fruition, but he knows he likes it. “ _Guys_.”

“ _Eddie_ ,” Stan says back, slightly mocking but altogether curious. He leans forward, sucked in by Eddie’s magnet as much as Richie. 

“This is all because of you guys. You guys tutored me. I was pulling a D _at best_ before you guys happened and now – _now_ look at me.” He shakes the paper again and it crinkles between them. Stan outright laughs and claps Eddie on the shoulder. 

“I knew you would do it, Eddie. We’ve been working so hard.”

“I know – I just, I can’t believe it. It’s just – a fucking A, Stan. An _A_.”

“An A,” Stan echoes, pride evident in his voice. Richie has seen Stan around with the other kids he tutors and there’s always this feeling of secondhand pride that follows whenever one of them shows improvement. It’s not so much a selfish thing, either. Stan isn’t sitting there taking pride in his own work or taking credit for these other kids, he’s celebrating with them. He’s proud of the work they’ve done. 

“And it’s because of you. Both of you. You guys are the only reason this happened.”

“It’s because of _you_.” Stan’s voice leaves no room for arguments but that’s never stopped Eddie before. He gives Stan one more appreciative look before turning to Richie and beaming.

“Thank you so much. Seriously.”

“C’mon, Eds, it was only one little study session. I hardly lifted a finger. It was all Stanny boy.”

Eddie has stopped vibrating at an inhuman rate but he’s still thrumming with energy and excitement. He’s smiling so wide he looks like his skin is going to start cracking and his teeth might fall out. There’s something radiant about the glow of his skin and Richie can’t help the way his hands twitch at his sides again. There’s so much flowing out of him, just absolutely pouring out of every part of his body and Richie wants so badly to wrap up in it, let it pour into him so he can get some of that sickening drug that Eddie seems to be doling out. It gets stronger every time they’re together, like he’s getting another dose and adding to the growing addiction Richie didn’t even know he was developing. 

It’s crystal clear now as Eddie rocks forward and says, “No, really. Thanks, Richie.”

Oh god, how those four words hit. They’re so fucking genuine, so full of something Richie hasn’t heard in years and it’s too much. He can’t help it. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Eddie, shouting as he throws his weight to the side and spins them around. Eddie’s shriek is so deafening that he can’t even hear the way his blood is pounding through his ears. 

“I couldn’t let my Eddie Spaghetti drown in the rocky wave of calculus, now could I?” Richie says, setting Eddie down and letting his arms fall from around his waist to dangling lifelessly by his sides. Eddie doesn’t move away immediately, instead he rests his head on Richie’s chest and lets out another bright laugh. When he steps back and tips his head up, Richie can see sparkles of silver sun lighting up around his eyes. 

“You mean that?”

He’s not talking about the calculus anymore and Richie knows it. There’s an infinity and a half worth of meanings behind those loaded words. 

There’s too much to say and not enough words, so Richie just nods instead of opening his big, fat mouth. He’d probably fuck it up if he talked, anyway. 

They stay like that for a moment, Eddie looking up at him with the brightest face and Richie looking back, wrapped up in the excitement of an unachievable accomplishment. They almost forget about Stan until he coughs and scuffles his feet, drawing them out of their own little world. 

Eddie snaps back first. His voice goes back to that high, fast tone and he says, “You guys have to let me thank you.”

Stan laughs again, this time almost incredulously. “Eddie, you pay me. I’m your tutor, it’s literally my job.”

Eddie sputters for a second but by the time he’s ready to push back against Stan, Stan’s cutting him off with a quick, “You don’t pay Richie, though. Maybe you could thank him?”

Oh, what the fuck, Stan? Seriously? Fucking seriously? This is how it’s going to be now?

Stan shoots him a look that could be crossed with innocence and deviance if the recipient knew how to read between the lines. He says, _What? This is purely innocent. A battering system if you will._

Richie shoots one back, not nearly as subtle. He shouts, _Eat my entire ass, Stanley Uris. Mark my words, you will rue this day for always and eternity._

“Oh!” Eddie eyes are right back on Richie’s, blind to whatever silent conversation was happening only a second earlier. “That’s a great idea. Richie, please, you have to let me do something for you. Let me take you somewhere, buy you something, anything. You want lunch, it’s on me today. Whatever you want, man.”

Richie’s mouth only has the capacity to open and close with no real words coming out of it. The world shifts to the left and he feels knocked off balance, a little dizzy and confused because what the fuck is happening? No, he’s not going to go out with Eddie. No, he’s not going to let Eddie buy him anything. It was a math test, Jesus Christ. And besides, Eddie already paid for dinner that night. 

“He likes movies,” Stan offers and Richie has never wanted to punch him more. In fact, he gets dangerously close to actually swinging but Eddie cuts in again, a second too soon for Richie’s fist to fly off the handle. 

“Oh, shit that’s a great idea.”

No, it isn’t. C’mon guys, this is not a great idea. Why do you guys think this is great? This is the opposite of great. Completely and utterly not-great. 

“Guys, wait a second –”

“You don’t have a game tonight, right?” Richie shakes his head. “I do, so we can meet up at like eight or nine or something? You pick the movie and shit, obviously.” 

And then Eddie is walking away. Short legs carry him faster than Richie can even think and then he’s out of sight. Stan, the unruly bastard, dissolves into cackles. 

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?” Richie hisses, invading Stan’s space and pressing them both tight against the lockers. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Stan remains cool and calm in the face of Richie’s pressure. He hardly even bats an eyelash as he straightens out the wrinkles in his lavender button up. That alone makes Richie boil a little harder, makes his skin heat up for reasons he can’t even define right now. The only thing he can think about is how, for the second time this week, he has to spend a few hours in close quarters with Eddie. 

“What? I’m sorry, did you suddenly get possessed by an idiot demon for the last two minutes? ‘Oh, you should thank Richie. Oh, Richie likes movies.’ What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

Stan doesn’t answer for a second. He simply puts his hand over Richie’s where it’s balled into his shoulder and lowers it. Richie complies, easily giving way to Stan’s gentle touch until they’re both leaning away from the lockers with a little more distance between them. 

“Why are you so riled up about this? You offered to help him study and now he wants to thank you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I just don’t see the big deal.” Stan shrugs away from Richie, then, and starts to slowly make his way to his own class. He makes it maybe five steps away before he turns around and says, “Unless there’s something you want to tell me?”

Almost on impulse, Richie grunts and digs a candy wrapper out of his pocket and hurls it at Stan. It flutters uselessly to the ground between them but that doesn’t stop Richie from crossing his arms and glaring, nor the way Stan smirks before continuing on. 

Fucking bastard.

As with every situation, Richie has no idea how he got himself into this mess. He could have just said no, but he didn’t. For some stupid fucking reason, he said yes and then the entire day tumbled away from him until this very moment. 

“This is stupid,” Richie mutters to himself. He couldn’t look a single foot in any direction without seeing some kind of shirt slung to the ground. God, if Maggie walked in right now, he’d be executed on the spot. 

Thankfully, no one is even home. Went had to stay late for some kind of meeting and Maggie is at one of her community activities. She’s probably sitting in some middle aged woman’s living room with a cup of tea and scones dishing out gossip on the latest neighborhood scandals. If Richie were being honest with himself, he’d be able to admit that he’s probably one of the scandals Maggie talks about. He isn’t, though, and he keeps the thought tucked in the furthest part of his brain where he can’t stew over it longer than necessary. 

In an act of meaningless spite, he cranks the speakers up a little louder. The sounds of messy guitars of Blink-182 rip through the speakers in a way that sets Richie’s heartbeat in time with the song. 

When the line, _would you guess that I didn’t know what to wear?_ leaks from the speakers he promptly switches the song. 

He makes little to no progress in the following ten minutes. He tries on a couple of band shirts, switches a pair of dark jeans for acid washed, and ultimately ends up splayed out over a mountain of clean clothes that decorates his bed. He’s not even wearing a shirt, anymore, just a pair of ratty old jeans. 

The clock ticks closer to eight. Each silent flip of the numbers taunts him. _7:41. 7:42. 7:43._ God, who invented digital clocks? And with red numbers, too? That’s sick. That’s fucking twisted. Whoever decided _hey, let’s make time menacing_ is a sadistic fuck. 

Songs echo and echo and echo through the speakers until he’s got nothing but ringing in his ears and has to shut it off. He doesn’t want to, part of himself still stubbornly proving an empty house wrong, but he caves. 

Fucking hell, this shouldn’t be so hard. This ridiculous. This is a fucking _travesty_.

He lifts his feet up, blindly kicking out into the air in a desperate attempt to release some of his frustration before throwing his weight forward and sitting back up. After another second, he buries his fingers in his hair and lets out a choked back scream, barely louder than the music. 

On impulse, he reaches for his phone and plugs in the info for Bev’s contact. Within seconds, her picture is lighting up the screen. 

It only a takes another couple of seconds before her live picture is lighting up instead. It takes a second for her to pixelate thoroughly but she’s ready as soon as it does. 

“I heard you threw a temper tantrum in the hallway,” Bev says. Her face is pixelated on the screen, slightly blurry, but Richie can see that smug look on her face. The one that tells him everything he needs to know about what’s coming next. 

“Talk to Stan, did’ya?”

He props his phone up on his dresser, level with his face and steps back so she can see his entire body. 

“Of course, I talked to Stan.”

“Well, then you should know the predicament I’m in.”

She laughs at that, high pitched and almost incredulous. 

“I’m sorry, the _what_?”

“Predicament,” He repeats, putting an unnecessary amount of emphasis on each syllable of the word. He even clicks the T, making sure she gets the point. 

She doesn’t. Or, well, if she does she soundly ignores it. 

“Oh, you mean your date?”

Richie doesn’t just roll his eyes. No, he rolls his entire body. His shoulders lean in the direction his eyes go and he practically slumps in a dramatic circle before coming back around to face her, getting obnoxiously close to the camera. “My fucking _what_?”

“You heard me, motor mouth.”

“And what, pray tell, makes this a fucking date?”

Bev goes from looking smug to ecstatic in a matter of seconds. When she talks, her voice has lit up a thousand degrees and she leans close to her own camera so he can only see her eyes and forehead, red wisps of hair dancing around the camera. 

“Aw,” She coos, “It’s a date! Richie and Eddie sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-”

“Do me a favor and kindly _shut the fuck up.”_

It comes out with a hint more venom than he intends, but it gets the point across pretty well. He can’t help the defensiveness that starts to prickle. If Bev’s not careful, all it will take is two more steps in the wrong direction for Richie to hang up on her. 

“Chill out, Dr. Hyde,” She says, hands up on the other side of the phone to signal her surrender. 

A flash of guilt passes through Richie’s chest. She was just trying to have fun and he went and snapped on her. He runs a hand through his curls, tangling his fingers where the strands pull together by the scrunchie. “Sorry.”

“We’re just teasing, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” He says, voice deflating from defensive to just tired. He sits down on the bed, still in view of her, and lets his head rest in his hands for a moment. 

“What’s going on, hun?” 

“I don’t know – everything is just – fuck,” He lets out another groan and stands up to grab his phone so that when he throws himself back on the bed, they can still see each other. “Everything’s confusing!”

She hums sympathetically, waiting for him to continue on. 

“I feel like I have whiplash from him. One second, we’re at each other’s throats and now we’re going out to the movies together because I helped him study?”

“It’s a lot,” She says. “It’s been unpredictable.”

“We haven’t had a real conversation in years and then all of this happens over the course of a single semester. I just don’t know what to think.”

“Well,” She starts, and then stops. She seems to contemplate her next words carefully, chewing them in her mouth before letting them come out. “What do you want to think?”

“Uhm.” Now it’s his turn to stop and think. What does he want? This entire time he’s been circling his brain, going back and forth from friends to enemies back to friends again, that he has never once stopped to think if he even _wants_ to be friends with Eddie. They really had the best of each other back then, but that doesn’t mean shit now. They’re two different people. They’ve grown up, and not in the way Richie always pictured they might. He thought they’d grow up _together,_ not relearn how to be friends for the second time. 

Does he want to be friends? 

The fluttering in his stomach makes him think he does, but he also never feels this way about Stan or Bev. Maybe it’s because they’re already friends, cemented together whether they like it or not. Maybe it’s because this is the tantalizing feeling of getting a lost toy back, except Eddie isn’t a toy and he was never really lost. He was there, just always too far to reach out and touch. 

When he thinks back, though, to all of those clouded memories he feels something fond settle inside of him. Something he wouldn’t mind feeling again. 

“We were best friends,” He says, opting out of all the garbage in his mind for the simplest answer he can manage. 

Bev hums again, considerate and present. She looks at him as intensely as she can with miles between them and says, “You have best friends.”

“What?” He sits up quick, nearly throwing his phone in the process. “Bev – no. I’m not replacing you guys, you know that, right?”

“I know.”

He rolls so he’s on his back, phone held up above his face, and he stares at her. She stares back, unmoving and waiting for the answer to her question. 

“I want to think that this means something.”

“And what would it mean?”

“I don’t fucking know, Bev. Anything, really. That I’m more than just some random stranger he can use and throw away when he’s done. He used to mean something to me. I want to mean something to him.”

“Used to?” Bev echoes and Richie almost throws his phone in frustration.

“Yes, used to. Before he up and pulled all of the shit he’s been pulling for the past however many fucking years. Okay?”

“Richie,” Her voice is still that soothing calm, “You mean something to him. We can all see it. Everyone can see it. Yeah, he’s been an asshole and I’m not telling you to drop your guard here, but I think Stan could be onto something.”

“Fuck what Stan thinks,” He spits, “This isn’t a fucking date.”

“Okay,” She concedes, eyes bordering on pity. There’s a silence that settles between them. “It’s not a date.”

The topic shifts into something lighter. Bev talks about the show – Jesus, is it really only in two weeks? – and Richie talks about the team. There’s a moment where Bev _insists_ he bring Jake around to the next get together and even though Richie is more than nervous about his two worlds colliding, part of him is simply excited for it. 

The clock keeps ticking despite the way he pretends to not notice it. Eight rolls up and Richie knows he’s wasted too much time. He’ll be late if he doesn’t speed things up but he’s useless without her advice. 

So, he bites the bullet and coughs once to get her attention, giving her a pointed look. One he knows she’ll understand. 

“What’s the real reason you called me, anyway?”

Richie pauses for a second, eyes flitting between Bev and the mess he left all over his room before he utters a single, defeated sentence. 

“I didn’t know what to wear.”

She laughs so loud he swears the neighbors can hear her. 

In the end, he settles on the jeans he was wearing and a flannel shirt overtop a plain black t-shirt. It’s simple, but sleek, she says. Not too boring, but it doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. Which he definitely is. She makes sure to remind him of that every step of the way.

He ends up getting to the theater at twenty after. The movie doesn’t start for almost ten more minutes but that didn’t stop the way Richie sped down the empty streets. Thank God it’s a weeknight and there’s no traffic or else he’d be late to his own shindig. 

Richie lingers in his truck for a few seconds longer than he should. It’s not a big deal. Really, it’s not. He’s hardly even sweating, really. It’s _nothing._  

Eddie is inside waiting by the ticket stand. Richie can see him clearly through the big glass windows that cover the front of the Aladdin. He’s got that big puffy jacket on and he’s holding his phone, idly scrolling through whatever the fuck he’s got open. Richie can’t help but watch him for a second, steal a quick once over before cutting the engine of his truck and effectively damning himself to the next couple of hours. 

At least they’ll be in a dark theater with a movie in between them. Something big and bright to focus on. That makes it better. 

Right?

Frustration sinks in beside the nervous excitement coursing through his body. He can’t quite figure out why he’s keyed up. He’s run through everything, every single possibility, and yet he can’t piece together the fucked-up puzzle of his emotions. It’s a roller coaster, really. Here he is, getting ready to watch a movie with Eddie Kaspbrak at the Aladdin, something he’s done a thousand times before in his childhood. He remembers pooling together his allowance and dragging Eddie along to double feature flicks long before the fallout. Long before the fear set in. 

He could turn around now and hold onto those empty memories, keep them preserved inside his mind forever. He doesn’t need to do this. He doesn’t need to run the risk of tainting one of the last places he lets exist in a golden tinted hue. 

He sighs to himself and pulls his flannel tighter, drags himself up to the door and pushes open. 

Eddie spins around almost immediately, face lighting up as soon as he sees Richie. 

“Richie, you made it!” He practically beams, shifting on his feet as Richie makes his way across the lobby to him. “I bought our tickets already. You want popcorn or something?”

Richie takes his ticket from Eddie’s outstretched hand and nods, walking past him but not unkindly. There’s something in the way Eddie’s eyes shine that he doesn’t want to see, so he elects to lead the way to the popcorn stand rather than lose himself in that split second. 

“God, Eds, you’re really out here wining and dining me, aren’t you? Movie tickets _and_ popcorn? What a way to a man’s heart.”

Eddie skips up behind him, barely missing a beat. “Oh, give me a break. You think you’re good enough for a date with me?”

Richie scoffs, outright fucking _scoffs_ at this, before spinning around on his heels. Oh no he didn’t. “Yeah, I do. You’d be lucky to have a shot with me.”

“Color me a four leafed clover, then,” Eddie says, brushing past Richie and walking up to the counter. “Large popcorn and a soda to split?”

“No soda, thanks,” And wow, that was weird. Why are they joking it’s a date? It isn’t. They’re both on the same page about this. What, does Eddie need him to spell it out?

God, everyone needs to calm down. 

Eddie circles back with a soda and an extra large popcorn, paid for and ready to go. Richie takes him in for a second, lips wrapped around the straw of his Coke and arm wrapped around the bucket. He looks cute and Richie bites back the urge to reach forward and pinch his cheeks. He knows Eddie would slap him away, give him an indignant look and maybe make some kind of comment. 

The moment passes, though, and Eddie walks by, mumbling something about _theater two, on our right_ around the straw in his mouth and Richie is following behind him, nothing but automated muscled movements. 

He’s led down the hall and into the theater, and then all the way to the top. Eddie murmurs something else, something about _better view from back here_ before he plops down on the seat and takes another long drag from his soda. 

Richie sits next to him, a little slower but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. He’s got his eyes trained on the shitty commercials that theaters play before the previews. 

Without a single forethought, Richie’s mouth starts running. 

“Wow, really sucking down that soda, aren’t you? Gonna have to piss it all out halfway through the movie.”

Eddie promptly stops his aforementioned sucking and shoots Richie an annoyed look, but it’s nowhere near serious. “What? Jealous that you didn’t get one?”

“Oh, yeah, so jealous.”

Eddie doesn’t bat an eyelash as he stretches out his hand and holds the soda up to Richie’s mouth, straw gently bumping his bottom lip. 

Neither of them speaks, but Eddie does hum something of a prompting noise and rattles the cup a little bit. Ice and liquid slosh around inside and Richie imagines it for a second, crashing around inside the confines of the cup. He’s not even sure why he sees it, he just does. It distracts him from the plastic in front of him, from the idea of taking a sip. From putting his lips around the same straw that Eddie’s lips were around.

Why the fuck is he thinking about Eddie’s lips? 

Whatever. 

He bats the cup away and Eddie just laughs in response, shifting in his seat until he deems It comfortable enough. The second he settles, Richie is leaning over, stealing the popcorn bucket and whispering directly into his space, too wrapped up in his desire to want to talk to Eddie, to say _something_ , that he doesn’t even think about what he wants to say until he’s saying it. 

“Let’s play that game where we guess how many previews there’s gonna be.”

“You’re on. What’s the winner get?”

“Uh.” Fuck, Richie didn’t think that far ahead. “An I.O.U?” 

Richie guesses seven, because that’s always a good guess. Eddie says five, backing himself up by saying there’s not enough zombie movies coming out soon to warrant that many previews and the previews almost always match the feature film. 

That’s stupid logic, though, because zombie movies isn’t a singular genre. There’re tons of movies that fall into the same realm as _Zombieland: Double Tap_. It’s all about the action and comedy mixture and Eddie just doesn’t get that. 

Richie ends up winning, anyway. 

The movie is good. It’s got good plot and good set up. Plus, the cast is stellar. Richie has been ranting and raving about the first one since he saw it almost ten years ago. _A cinematic masterpiece_ , he would say. The perfect combination of horror, humor, and hurt. If _only_ they would make a second one. It would be so good. There’s so much room for it. And now here it is! He has to be at least _partially_ responsible for this movie magic. His dedication and love for the franchise alone must have sparked something beautiful in that writing room.

He gets lost in it for a little while as he munches on handfuls of popcorn and watches the blood spray across the screen with gleeful laughter. 

Eddie arm bumps against his, jolting him out of his cinematic zombie experience and putting him right back in the theater. It’s sudden enough, forceful enough, that Richie looks over to see if Eddie was trying to get his attention. He doesn’t find Eddie’s eyes, though. They’re trained on the screen as the early plot of the movie unfolds before them. 

It’s weird. Being here with Eddie almost feels like someone has picked him up and set him half a decade into the past, except they’re all grown up now. They’re still a little gangly and awkward, but not like they were back then. Richie was all arms and legs and Eddie was a short, stout, stack of energy. He was always laughing, always talking, always going along with Richie’s crazy ideas and sometimes coming up with his own. 

It was good, back then. 

It’s good now, too. At least, right in this moment. There’s a familiar comfort around them, a little bubble of the past that only they can feel. It’s nice. 

Eddie’s hand bumps his again in the darkness and there’s no way it was an accident this time. Eddie’s got his own piece of plastic and Richie’s had his arm on the armrest this entire time. Sure, he gets a pass the first time he does it but twice? No way. No fucking way. 

He nudges Richie, pushes with just a hint of force until they’re sharing the space.  

Part of him begs to chance a glance over, begs to see if Eddie is looking at him or not, but he can’t. If he does, it might miss something on the screen. He could miss the way a main character swings at a zombie or a quick and funny line he might want to store in his back pocket for later. 

Then, without warning, Eddie’s arm lifts up and slowly snakes over Richie. Any focus on the movie is gone, the only thing he can pay attention to is the way Eddie’s fingers crawl over his skin, inch by inch.

_Oh god, he’s going to hold my hand. He’s going to hold my fucking hand. What do I do? Do I hold it back? Do I –_

Eddie’s fingers inch into the bucket of popcorn on Richie’s lap, fist some kernels, and then his entire arm retracts. Richie can feel one or two pieces drop onto his arm and lap and he resists the urge to pick them up and lob them at Eddie – or worse, eat them himself. 

On screen, more blood is poured than probably necessary. 

Fuck, it’s hot. All of a sudden Richie can feel little beads of sweat forming on his forehead and the space on the back of his neck. Within seconds, it’s practically pouring down his skin, drenching his shirt and pants and flannel. The heat crawls up the back of his neck, into his ears, and Jesus Christ, what’s happening? He can’t even breathe anymore. He sounds like Eddie after a childhood asthma attack, wheezing on the side of the street with nothing but a hunk of medicated plastic clutched in his hands. 

It takes him two seconds to unbutton his flannel and shrug it off. Beside him, he can feel Eddie’s eyes on him and he chances a glance.

“It’s hot in here,” He whispers as if that’s enough to explain the way he practically tore his shirt off. It doesn’t help, either. He can still feel the heat in his face and neck. He probably looks awful, all flushed and sweaty in a nearly empty movie theater. 

The look Eddie gives him is quizzical at best. In the dim lighting Richie swears he can see a faint blush on Eddie, too. 

He’s probably just projecting, though. Projecting what? He has no fucking idea. 

Careful to not make too much noise, he takes a deep breath in and lets it out through his nose, tries to filter some of the excess heat out of his body. Circulation and all that, right? 

As the movie rumbles on, the plot becomes lost to Richie. Someone runs away and the others try to find her. Zombies explore on screen with humorous glory, and beside him Eddie’s laugh sounds like a love song. 

The longer he sits there, the harder it gets. He can feel himself crawling out of his skin, desperate to get out of there. This movie date – god, _date_ – was an awful idea. Fuck Stan. That all knowing harlot can rot in hell for all Richie cares. Once he gets out of here, he’s not talking to him for _at least_ twenty-four hours, if not more. 

When was the last time he was like this with Eddie? It’s been so long; the memories are faded by now. It takes more mental effort than he appreciates to dig out the boxes and dust them off. 

Up in the balcony of this very theater, they used to whisper back and forth. If Richie was diligent enough, he could get Eddie to laugh so hard sprite would come out of his nose. It would burn so bad that tears would prickle in the corner and his entire face would go a blotchy sort of red. Richie would want to help, but he’d be too busy laughing through his own tears to be able to get anywhere near Eddie without the threat of being pushed over the edge. 

Maybe they’re still up there, frozen in time like the shitty graphics of an old eighties movie. Maybe they’re flickering in and out like ghosts too caught up in the past.

Outside, they would run up and down Center Street. On good days, they would find themselves in Bassey Park. It was easy to run around in the grass. There were enough trees to make their days interesting. The amount of times Richie has fallen out of one only to be patched up by Eddie’s Magic Fanny Pack were too high to count. Sometimes, Richie would fall out on purpose and scratch his knee on the way down. He’d ask Eddie for a red one because that was his favorite color, a color Eddie never really seemed to run out of. 

On bad days, they would find themselves on one of their living rooms. More often than not, it was the Tozier household.  Sonia wasn’t a particularly huge fan of the fact that Eddie had friends, especially when that friend was resident loud mouthed and dirty boy, Richie Tozier. When they went to Eddie’s, though, Richie got to play with his sweet matchbox cars. They would run them up and down the railings of Eddie’s two story until Sonia shrieked about the damage they would doing to the wood. Then, they would take it upstairs and roll them around on the hardwood floors. Often times, they got the same lecture twice and Richie would be asked to go home long before the sun would set. 

On days they went to Richie’s house, though? Oh, man. Those were the best days. Maggie would make them chicken nuggets and Went would help them build the biggest blanket forts known to mankind. They would stretch all the way up to the ceiling. Most of the time, Richie had to duck if he wanted to stand up but Eddie never did. After it was built and they furnished it with only the softest pillows in the entire house – usually the ones from the master bedroom – Went would drag the big tube TV to the edge of the fort and pop in whichever DVD Richie and Eddie requested. More often than not, the two of them would munch on snacks and joke through the entire movie. Sometimes, Richie would come to an hour or so later with Eddie tucked tightly into his side. 

Richie isn’t quite sure when he stopped building blanket forts. It was sometime after the end of the Eddie Era but before he became so close to Stan and Bev. For a few months, there, he used to come home to them pre-built. He would curl up inside and watch a movie until he fell asleep. He’d wake up for dinner and then crawl up to his room and repeat the cycle of being ignored until it hurt less. 

Who knew opening up the boxes with the good memories would open up the ones with the bad ones, too. 

Eddie’s arm pushes against his – three times, now – and it snaps him from his thoughts. This time, he does look over. Eddie isn’t staring back, he’s looking straight ahead. His eyes are trained on the screen and if Richie didn’t know any better, he’d say Eddie was blissfully unaware of what he was doing. 

Richie can’t look for too long or else he’d get lost in the soft features of Eddie. 

And he might have been, too, if Richie didn’t feel the way the muscles in his forearm twitched. Or maybe he could shrug it off if Eddie’s fingers didn’t jolt once, twice, three times until his pinky finger gained just enough bravery to slip over Richie’s own. No, there’s no way in fuck that was an accident. 

Boys don’t accidentally hold pinkies with other boys. 

Oh god, it’s getting hot again. His collar feels tight, too tight to breathe and so he pulls it. He wiggles his shoulders for good measure, thoroughly ruffling up his shirt and looking away from the movie, away from Eddie. 

What a fucking cliché. 

He doesn’t move his arm, though. He doesn’t dare. Eddie’s finger his wrapped around his like a vice but he knows if he wanted to, he could easily slip out. 

He doesn’t want to, though. The thought slaps him across the face hard enough to bruise and he can remember distant, faded memories with Eddie pressed sleeping into his side under a rickety blanket fort. He didn’t want to let go, then, either. 

Oh. Oh, fucking Christ. 

He doesn’t want to let go. In fact, he wants to press in further. It’s like earlier, in the hallway. That all-consuming want to pick Eddie up and spin him around, hold him close, bring him in and kiss him. 

Kiss him. 

Richie wants to kiss him. 

Richie is sitting in a dark movie theater, sharing popcorn and holding pinkies with varsity baseball superstar Eddie Kaspbrak and he wants to kiss him. Oh god. Holy shit. Oh, holy fucking shit. What’s happening? What’s _happening!_

Something angry wells up in him, then. Just for a second. It sparks and heats him up from the inside out, burns his skin up, almost makes him bolt. Fuck this, fuck this whole thing. This is bullshit. This is all shit and he doesn’t need this. A date? Who the fuck does Eddie think he is? Who do Stan and Bev think they are? 

A date. Jesus fucking Christ. This is a _date._

He’s almost ready to stand, make his dramatic exit out of the theater and leave Eddie right where he’s sitting, confused but behind for the rest of his life. 

As fast as it comes, though, it’s gone; leaves him empty and cold and filling up with something else. Whatever it is, it’s way less feral and reactive. It’s chilly in here, now. Goosebumps are on the move up and down his legs, his spine. The only warm part of his body is where is forearm is pressed up against Eddie’s. 

If he thought he was hot a second ago, he was dead wrong. He wasn’t hot, that was _nothing_ compared to the way his arm burns at the touch. It burns so bad it aches but he doesn’t want to pull himself away. Instead, he wants to press closer, wants to siphon it off and get as much of it has he can. The cold is inching its way up and down his body and if he can just get a little more heat from Eddie, maybe he’d feel satisfied. Maybe he’d feel back in balance. 

Eddie still isn’t looking at him. He’s looking forward, eyes trained on the movie. He looks like he’s paying attention, too, and the thought that Eddie is sitting here, cool as a cucumber, has Richie’s head spinning off his shoulders. How is he this cool? How is Eddie _Gay Panic_ Kaspbrak cool right now?

The movie passes in what feels like an instant. One second Richie is watching blood and slaughter wrack the screen and the next the lights are slowly fading on. The theater slowly transitions out of that unnatural, otherworldly place and back into reality. The other moviegoers come to life, stretching and standing. The sound of gentle murmurs mixed with groans begins to fill the space around them. As people stand and their pants scratch against the cushions of the chair, the distinct sound of fabric rubbing against fabric echoes. 

Every minute sound is loud in Richie’s ears. He’s hyper aware of everything around him, especially the way Eddie quickly slips his finger away as he himself stands up, reaching high above his head to stretch the kinks out of his shoulders and back. A small sliver of tan skin peeks out from under the hem of his shirt and Richie can’t stop the way his eyes linger or the way his face heats up. Dear god, the lights better be soft enough to hide it or he’s going to combust from embarrassment. He’d die right here, he swears to god. 

“Great movie, huh?” Eddie says. His voice is gruff from not being used for several hours and Richie can see the soft way his features glow in the movie lighting. He smiles, gentle and calm, but his eyes say something a little bolder. Richie’s wrapped up in them. He studies them for hints of malice, anxiety, hatred, anything big and hard to swallow. It’s not there, though. Well, maybe there’s a little anxiety but there’s a whole lot of warmth. 

A sudden, all-consuming thought crashes down on Richie as he stares up. 

Eddie is attractive, yeah, but Richie already knows that. It’s that thought mixed with how he suddenly wants to stand and press his lips against Eddie’s that’s jarring. He doesn’t try to stop it, either. Sure, this is the second time he’s thinking about it, but it’s stronger now. His mind runs rampant with thoughts of how Eddie’s lips would feel, what they would taste like, how warm they might be that Richie doesn’t register Eddie’s initial question until he’s saying Richie’s name, calling him out of the haze he’s slipped into. 

“Oh,” Richie stands quickly, knocking his popcorn clean from his lap and spilling it onto the ground. “Shit – uh. It was good, yeah. I liked it.”

He talks quick, stumbling over his words as he bends down to scoop the kernels back into the bucket. When he peers up, Eddie is laughing down at him. 

“What?”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

Then, he’s squatting down, wiping the remaining kernels off the ground. His fingers brush over Richie’s along the way and it sends electric sparks from the tips of his fingers to the center of his chest. God, it’s like a fucking defibrillator. It’s not like him to keel over and die on movie theater floors, but there’s a first time for everything. It leaves him shell-shocked, parched and gasping for air. There’s a second where he wishes that offer for soda still stands but that’s long gone. Now he’s just empty, no popcorn and no soda to fill him up. Just Eddie and his wayward fingertips. 

Once the mess is clean, they both stand up. It’s too easy to become aware of how much taller Richie is when Eddie is standing so close to him. A simple flick of his wrist and Richie could knock his knuckles against Eddie’s. 

Eddie’s smile is so gentle it’s packed with something Richie can’t even begin to unearth. He feels the entire universe stop just so he can take it in. He’ll take in anything, at this point. He’s desperate to feel something outside of this hollow realization.

Suddenly, he’s desperate to know how Eddie really feels. 

Sure, Stan can say whatever he wants and Bev can make jokes until the cows come home, but at the end of the day she’s more right than he is. He needs to be careful. The track record behind this entire thing is bending in his favor. Richie takes one step forward and Eddie promptly sprints in the opposite direction. He can’t risk anything big. He can’t just pull Eddie aside and say _I don’t know what I’m feeling but I’m feeling something and I hope you’re feeling it, too_. All he can do is wait, give Eddie the upper hand. 

For now, this is enough. This look, these touches. They’re enough. 

They walk out in relative silence. Richie can’t shake the feeling of something else in them now, something so tangible he almost feels like he can reach out and touch it. Hell, if he ever opened his mouth to speak, maybe he could taste it. 

Richie isn’t often one for stretched out silences, but there’s something about this one that settles in his chest. Not only does he have nothing to say, he doesn’t _want_ to say anything. He doesn’t want to disrupt whatever fragile thing is happening now. Eddie walks beside him with a rigid jaunt Richie doesn’t remember ever seeing. Not after the fall out, not after the fight. There’s something about this one that seems so careful, so calculated. One breath in the wrong direction might blow him over. When he hits the ground, he might break up into a thousand tiny, splintered pieces. 

If he shatters, Richie isn’t quite sure what he’d do next. Run home with his tail tucked between his legs? Cry into the waiting arms of his friends who tease and tease but are as apprehensive as he is? No, not tonight. Not this time. 

The private, closed atmosphere of the movie is shattered the second they step out into the hallway. The lights are bright, so much brighter than the soft glow of the lamps from only seconds before. Whatever magic they casted is lifted and Richie feels a chill run up and down his spine. His shirt unties easily enough and he’s slipping it back on, buttoning it up and pulling it tighter for warmth. Beside him, Eddie pulls his jacket tighter, too. 

Something is different. Something changed in there. They walked in two people who barely knew each other anymore and they’re leaving as something else. Not quite friends, Richie doesn’t think they’re there yet. But god dammit, there’s something there. Something Richie doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.

Fuck. Maybe he has. Maybe he just didn’t know what it was before now. Maybe he’s been feeling it for so fucking long he didn’t even know it was big and exciting and different because before now, it was just part of him. Even when he wasn’t there, Eddie has always been a part of him.

“I have to pee.”

The sound of Eddie’s voice rips him from his thoughts and he looks over. Eddie isn’t looking at him; his eyes are downcast and his hair falls into his face a little bit. He’s got his shoulder drawn all the way up to his ears as if he’s trying to shrink into them, fall back into himself and hide forever. Before, Richie might have thought it was just Eddie fucking with him again, taking him for a ride up and down the streets of Derry before abandoning him like an unwanted dog. Now, though?

Those touches, those looks. That wasn’t running. That wasn’t fucking around. 

“Sure,” Richie says back. Then, “Me, too,” Because he does.

Eddie still doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even throw a sideways glance as they walk into the bathroom. At least the way he walks into the stall is predictable. No way Eddie would be caught dead openly peeing in the boy’s room. 

Richie walks over to the urinal and does his thing, shakes off and walks to the sink. He tries not to think about how the only sounds in the room are piss hitting porcelain and instead focuses on the warm water cascading over his hands. There’s a flush, so loud it’s deafening, and then Richie shuts off the sink. He dries his hands on his pants in silence. God, it’s so quiet; why the fuck is it so quiet? Why hasn’t Eddie come out yet? What the fuck is he doing in there, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for Richie to leave? 

God, he’s probably waiting for Richie to leave. Jesus Christ, he’s an idiot. Eddie’s in there waiting for Richie to leave and when he comes out it’s going to be so fucking awkward holy hell – 

The door of Eddie’s stall pushes open and Eddie steps out. He makes his way to the sink and washes his hands slower than Richie has ever seen anyone wash their hands before. It’s maybe ten seconds in that Richie realizes he’s staring but even then, he can’t really bring himself to care. Maybe if Eddie looked up he’d stop staring but Eddie’s eyes have gone from the ground to his hands and haven’t strayed. He hasn’t looked up since they left the theater. 

_Boys don’t accidentally hold pinkies with other boys._

Oh, god, he’s about to make a huge mistake. 

“Eddie?” His voice is careful not to startle Eddie, but it does anyway. He jumps a little, droplets splashing up onto the rim of the sink before the water shuts off. 

Eddie hums in response but he still doesn’t look. He _won’t_ fucking look. 

“Eds,” Richie says again, a little firmer this time. He gets Eddie’s attention, but only for a second. He glances up, then back down at the paper towel he’s running over his hands. He balls it up, tosses it in the trash, and another one to repeat the process. His hands are so busy, so distracting. Richie can’t help the way he reaches out, one hand covering both of Eddie’s and the paper towel. 

Now _that_ gets his attention. 

“Yeah?”

Richie takes a step in, then another. Eddie backs up, but only once Richie gets close enough to breathe the same air. They go until Eddie’s back almost touches the wall, Richie’s hand still on Eddie’s and Eddie’s eyes wide and confused. Except, not really confused. Maybe more concerned. Nervous? Richie can’t tell. But whatever it is, Eddie isn’t running. 

_This is it,_ Richie thinks, _whatever this is, this is fucking it._

“I, uh – I won the trailer game.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, voice tapering off into a small whisper and his body almost shrinking along with it. His eyes aren’t on Richie’s. No, they’re angled down and lidded slightly. He doesn’t mind as much anymore. While he can’t be positive where Eddie’s looking, he has an idea. 

“Eds,” Richie’s voice comes out soft, too. Gentle. Like he’s trying to keep a stray cat calm and any sudden movement or loud noise will startle it off. His hand moves slowly, unsure, until they settle somewhere between Eddie's hips and rib cage. The other one sneaks up, slow, slow, slowly until he’s almost touching the soft skin of Eddie's face, cradling the line of his jaw. 

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie repeats and his tone is still soft, still scared, but maybe desperate now. Desperate for Richie to keep going or go away, he isn’t sure. “My reputation, my life.  Everything I’ve worked for.”

Richie only hums and watches Eddie’s eyes flick up and then back down. He doesn’t lean away but Richie can see the way his hands are shaking. 

“It’ll all be gone. _Ruined_. I can’t, Richie. I _can’t_.”

“Yes, you can. It’s easy, just watch.”

Richie’s hand settles firmly on Eddie’s face now, brushes a tuft of hair over his ear as his thumb swipes the skin under Eddie's eye. Eddie leans into the touch ever so slightly, so slightly Richie almost misses the movement. Almost. 

There’s a slamming coming from inside of his ribcage as he leans in, inching forward like a snail trying to reach the salvation of a hiding hole. He’s waiting for Eddie to lean away, to duck out of the way and push past Richie, run right out of the bathroom, but he doesn’t. If anything, Eddie tilts his head up.

There’s maybe three inches between the two of them, closing ever so slightly. Eddie doesn’t move. He hardly even breathes and the idea of this happening for real has Richie’s skin on fire. Every nerve ending lights up, every point that they’re joined is a blazing forest fire, greedily consuming everything in its wake. 

Two inches now. Richie can’t breathe. He’s shaking, what little coming out of his lungs is stuttered and nervous, careful not to let it wash over Eddie. 

One inch. God, they’re so close. They’re so fucking close how did they get so close. Why hasn’t Eddie pushed him away yet? Why isn’t he running? Richie lets his eyes flick up from Eddie’s lips to his eyes and he sees the way the lids have dropped down even further, almost completely shut now. His hands are frozen in the air between them, hovering right in front of Richie’s chest as if he’s unsure of where to place them; as if he’s waiting to make a decision that he can’t make on his own. 

Half an inch left. Richie’s sure he’s not going to move, now. He’s going to let it happen. He’s going to let Richie kiss him. And then what? What’s going to happen then? Richie didn’t think he’d get this far but now that he’s here, now that there’s so much tension and so much calm between the two of them he’s not sure if he can bear another explosion. If Eddie reacts poorly, if he pushes Richie away and then leaves them both alone and shattered in the aftermath, well, that would simply be too much to bear. 

Eddie’s eyes slip closed at the last second and he tips his chin. Richie can feel the movement under his palm but he doesn’t have time to register it because then they’re kissing, pressed together under the flickering lights of a movie theater bathroom. 

There isn’t an explosion of light or love or fireworks or any of those things that Richie’s read about in books or seen in movies. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s terribly mundane to be kissing Eddie. It’s mundane to taste salt and butter on his lips and feel his skin burn under his touch. It’s boring to feel the way Eddie’s lips part only slightly before they come back together, or the way he leans in and presses the palms of his hands to Richie’s chest. There’s nothing at all in the way he presses up onto his toes just to get closer to Richie, just to press their lips tighter together. 

Except, you know. Richie’s always been an awful liar when it comes to the things he wants the most. 

Kissing Eddie is like kissing air. There’s a light wind coursing through Richie and lifting him off the ground. HIs heart isn’t pounding anymore, it’s fluttering like the wings of a butterfly, lifting him up and up and up. He can only assume that the fingers tightening in his shirt are either in an effort to keep them both grounded or to hold on tight as they ascend up into the sky. 

Eddie’s lips are softer than he remembers them being. They’re plump, well moisturized and maybe a little bit swollen from being chewed on through the duration of the movie and Richie cannot stop kissing them. He can’t stop his hands from clutching Eddie’s shirt and pulling him in, or the way he practically moans when one of Eddie’s hands snakes into his hair to tangle in the black curls. 

Richie presses forward and feels the way Eddie gives to his suggestion. Soon, he’s got Eddie backed up against the wall and he’s pressing them together. Something inside of Richie swoops and twists and turns like an old wooden roller coaster that hasn’t passed safety regulations in over a decade. It's rickety and unsure but exhilarating. High risk, high reward. 

The thing that finally tears them apart is a whoosh of air as the main door to the bathroom pushes open. Eddie practically leaps away from Richie, slamming himself further into the wall and using his hands to push and get as much distance between the two of them as possible. 

The boy in the doorway is probably a couple years younger than them, cherub face tainted by exhaustion and maybe a little bit of exasperation. 

“Uh,” Comes out of Richie dumbly. “We were just leaving.”

“Whatever,” The boy says. He’s already rolling the mop bucket into the room and propping up a _wet floor sign_ when Eddie bolts. He yanks the door open as far as it will go and slips out of sight. 

Shit. 

Richie follows, sneaking past the employee with a little more caution and murmuring an apology as he goes. 

By the time he makes it into the hallway, Eddie is gone. Fucking hell, that kid moves fast. 

Thank god for baseball because at least now Richie can sprint more than several feet without collapsing. The doors to the theater swing open so hard Richie thinks they’re going to shatter but he doesn’t stop to make sure, he just sprints out into the middle of the dark parking lot, eyes scanning for Eddie. 

Thankfully, they both parked pretty far back. He’s got his jacket clutched tight around him and he’s hurrying, about halfway there. He’s going to leave again. He’s going to get in his car and Richie’s never going to see him again. He’ll disappear into the night and never come back. 

“Eddie, please don’t leave!” The words are out of his mouth quicker and louder than he means, muddled from trying to catch his breath as he runs. 

Eddie, thank fuck, stops and spins around. His eyes are frantic and his hair is mussed as he looks back and forth, making sure no one is around. He waits for Richie to reach him before he hisses, “He saw us!”

“Eddie, he didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to clean the bathrooms, it’s fine,” Richie huffs out a few breaths and rests his hands on his knees for a few seconds. Eddie doesn’t look amused or calmed by Richie’s words, if anything he looks even more anxious. 

“He saw us, _fuck_. Fuck!” Small hands bury into blonde hair as Eddie quickly starts to unravel himself. They tangle in there, taking root in a desperate attempt to diffuse the emotions untangling. 

Richie can’t stand to watch it, he rights himself and takes a step toward Eddie, waits to see if he flinches or bolts. He doesn’t, so Richie takes another and then another until there’s little more than a foot separating them. Eddie isn’t looking up at him, his eyes are wide and focused on the center of Richie’s chest as he takes shallow, uneven breaths. “What are we gonna do.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. This wasn’t just some rando for Eddie, no. He was the entire student body of Derry High. He was every single stranger on the street. He was Eddie’s mother, disapproving and cold. That kid represents every single risk and consequence Eddie drummed up in his mind. 

Carefully, Richie brings his hand up to Eddie’s face. Eddie startles, but doesn’t lean away from it. He doesn’t lean into it, either, but Richie decides to just leave it. Comfort comes in small motions. 

“Shh, it’s okay. He doesn’t even go to our school. He’s like, four years below us.”

Eddie is silent, eyes still trained on the pattern of Richie’s shirt, distant. It’s unsettling, he’s practically watching Eddie lift out of his own body and go somewhere else. Somewhere Richie might not be able to reach. 

“Eddie, hey,” He leans in close when he says it, voice nothing but a whisper. “What does he know, anyway. He was like nine years old. He probably thought we were just playing a really intense game of rock, paper, scissors.”

Eddie’s cheek shifts until Richie’s hand and - oh, there we go. He’s back. His head dips down to hide the way he’s biting back a smile. “You’re stupid as fuck, nine-year-olds can’t have jobs. He was, like, sixteen at least.”

“Nah, did you see that baby face?” Richie lets himself talk a little louder, lets himself smile with Eddie and soon they’re both smiling with small, silent giggles shaking their shoulders. 

It’s quick, though. Too quick, because when Eddie looks up at Richie his smile is gone, grey eyes shining with something small and scared. Then he’s shrugging Richie’s hand away and stepping back, just slightly. Richie can’t deny that even the smallest distance between them fills him with disappointment. 

“Richie, he _saw_ us.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t care. It’s okay, Eds. I promise. I won’t let anything happen.” Richie’s words don’t have the effect he wants them to. “I’ll go back in there, kick his ass. Make sure he doesn’t talk.”

Richie’s already half turned to march back inside, no plan in mind, when he hears “Richie, no!” Eddie’s hand flies out and grabs the loose sleeve of Richie’s flannel where it dangles from his hips. Richie can see another smile creep onto the corners of his lips. “You can’t do that.”

“Okay, okay, fine. God, you’re really twisting my arm here, Eds –”

“– not my name –”

“– but I guess since you asked so nicely, I won’t. But you gotta promise me you’ll be okay.”

Eddie watches him for a second, smile still there but shrouded under something cautious. When he speaks, his voice is back to that low whisper. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Richie echoes and he matches Eddie’s tone, careful not to spook him again. His eyes are shining in the dull lights from the parking lot and Richie can feel tension he didn’t even know he was holding loosen from his chest. Eddie is still here, still with him. 

“Okay,” Eddie repeats, dropping Richie’s sleeve and glancing down at the pavement. “We should get home, though.”

“Yeah, we should. Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Goodnight, Richie.”

It would be impossible to not watch Eddie make his way to his car. It’s not much further from where they were standing, maybe a twenty second walk. Richie doesn’t move the entire time. He just stands and watches, waits until Eddie is safely keying into the driver’s side door and yanking it open.

Because he’s watching, he sees the way Eddie pauses, the way he just stands and stares into his empty car. Two, maybe three beats pass like that and Richie can feel his heartbeat start to speed a little bit, can feel his body begin to move toward Eddie to check on him. Before he can, though, Eddie is turning around and saying, “I had a good time tonight,” just loud enough for Richie to hear in the quiet space of the lot. 

A smile takes hold of Richie involuntarily. It sparks up, lights up his entire face. It makes him stand straighter and taller as he watches Eddie watch him, caught up in a parallel crossroads neither of them really understands. 

“Me, too.”

Then, Eddie is climbing into his car and starting it. The headlights come on almost immediately and he wastes no time leaving the movie theater. It’s not rushed, though. Not frantic or desperate, just ready and moving. Eddie’s car turns right out of the exit and then his taillights are gone, fading into the glow of shop signs and street lights of Main Street. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a Pinky and the Brain quote. Anyone? Anyone? It’s because they’re holding pinkies lmfao. Please tell me I’m not the only one here old enough to know that show. I have no idea how old basically any of you are, but if you never watched Pinky and the Brain please go do it’s fucking insane. Old school cartoons, man. Love ‘em.
> 
> Additionally, I haven’t actually SEEN zombieland: double tap yet but I’m dying. I want to see it so bad. I'm just so fucking broke guys working 20 hours a week isn't cutting it anymore I can't wait until I can bump up back to fulltime for winter break and make more moneyyyyy
> 
> And, we’re back! Thanks SO MUCH for your love and patience. I’m so overwhelmed with my weeks it’s so hard to write. I really thought I’d have this chapter out sooner considering I had about 4k pre-written but I’ve been working such long hours and 90% of my mental energy is going to my clients that I can’t write as much as I want to. Winter break is coming, though! So maybe I can bang some chapters out. 
> 
> Anyway I love you guys thanks for all the love and comments you guys are always so kind and wonderful I cannot even begin to tell you what it means to me

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome one and all to my completely self indulgent slowburn Baseball AU complete with team captain Eddie and local loner Richie. I'm very excited about this fic, so please bare with me. I 100% plan to finish this fic and there is a full outline for it, which may be added to or altered as I move through the storyline. There are a couple of major events in this story that may be hard for some people to swallow. I will post warnings at the top of the designated chapters. I will also tag as best I can in the main fic so ensure people are reading the kind of content they signed up for.
> 
> Huge thanks to Oldguybones, It-stranger-than-you-think, and aizeninlefox for beta reading this, letting me bounce ideas, and being overall very encouraging and supportive as I outlined and wrote. ]
> 
> Please, please drop a comment and let me know what you think. As self indulgent as this is, it's a huge undertaking and I LIVE for support and validation. I want to produce something that not only I like, but you guys like to.
> 
> Also, come chat w me @ reddie-for-anything.tumblr.com !


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